The King of Ice and Fire
by flugelhornjosh
Summary: Lord Commander, Jon Snow, is given the oppertunity to become a legitimized Stark, under the orders of Stannis Baratheon. He has a chance to retake the lands and the home of his family and avenge their murders. But will he? Will he stay true to his commitments at Castle Black or will he delve into his real family's war as he once intended? Not affiliated with G.R.R Martin or GoT.
1. Lord of Winterfell

**Lord of Winterfell**

For as long as he could remember, Jon had wanted to be Stark. 'I took a vow, Sam, same as you. I can't break it.'

Samwell Tarly was his dearest friend but he could never understand any of Jon's qualms when it came to his family. When Robb went to war, it was Sam who talked him out of deserting south. Now he was the one trying to convince him to go.

'You could be Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, just like your father. It's all you've ever wanted.'

The thought sent chills of guilt up his spine. A bastard could never rise to what Robb had been born for…and died for. And what of Bran? His true brother. He was now the true lord of Winterfell. Jon couldn't just usurp his way into his father's chair, knowing Bran was out there, alive.

Sam continued opening the messages that had arrived late in the day. The candle was snub and its fire dim. Jon noticed Sam squinting through the darkness, trying to make sense of the words. A hearth sat roaring in the corner, soothing the bitter autumn night.

The library rarely had visitors, since Maester Aemon had passed, so Sam had leave to make a mess of the place. Messages sprawled across every corner, accompanied by towers of dusty, unread books. Jon studied some of the titles but recognized none.

'Only if Stannis wins. The Lannisters still hold Kings Landing and I don't think they'll simply give it away. Stannis had tried before and he failed. What's to stop him losing again?'

'Tywin Lannister is dead, don't forget. That leaves Roose Bolton without his biggest ally. Stannis may never take the Iron Throne, but he can get you to Winterfell at least. From there, you can rally your banners, retake the north and live as Jon Stark! You may be a bastard, but you are still the son of Eddard Stark, and the north remembers.'

'And what of this place? I am Lord Commander now; The Watch needs me, now more than ever.' With Mance Raider dead, The Wildlings were scattered and weak, but they were no longer the enemy. The White Walkers still lurked north of The Wall, and winter was coming. 'What use am I at Winterfell if the Whites come? Titles mean nothing if you're dead. Lord Commander, Lord of Winterfell, it means nothing if we lose.'

'Don't you see Jon? You and the North have the blood of the first men running through your veins. The books will tell you. In the Watch's time of need, it was always The North who came. We need a Warden of the North who will fight for us…with us. Once you've won back the North, you can march them here to fight…' Sam trembled. The words sat stuck in his throat. '…them.'

Jon hadn't considered that. He wouldn't be abandoning his brothers, he would be saving them. He could bring half the country to Castle Black and finally bring Westeros into the fold. Stannis so far had been the only king to come to their aid, but he wasn't planning to stay long. Winterfell was to be his next stop and he'd invited Jon to join him, along with the mass army of Wildlings, if Mance had bent the knee.

'No, Stannis and the rest would expect me to go south and avenge my brother and father. They'd never support a war at The Wall. It just wouldn't happen, nor could it. No matter which title I hold, I will always be a bastard.'

Sam seemed sad for him. Then he went nervous again.

'What is it? Tell me Sam.'

'I didn't want it to change your mind so I thought it best not to tell you.'

Jon had grown instantly impatient. 'What is it, Sam,' he said once again more sternly this time.

'Your brother, Rickon. A raven arrived yesterday. He's at East Watch by-the-sea. And his wolf. It says a wildling women took him there.'

Jon's heart blasted, then sunk. 'Any news of Bran?'

Sam hesitated. 'There is no mention of him,' he said as he handed Jon the parchment. Jon snatched it up and skimmed the words.

 _Gods be good, Rickon is safe at least._

'You should have told me, Sam.'

'I know, but I couldn't. Not at the time. You needed to think clearly.'

He couldn't be angry with Sam, he was right. Now he knew he had Rickon at least, his purpose became clear. With Rickon at The Wall, Roose Bolton couldn't touch him, or Bran, if he had truly gone north. All that was at stake now was his own life. And there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

'I'll do it. On the morrow, I'll tell Stannis I will march with him and root the Boltons out of my home.' _And I will not stop until I put a knife in that traitors heart._


	2. Azor Ahai

**Azor Ahai**

'Follow me, Jon. Follow me and I will show you.' A faint voice echoed through the crypts. It echoed louder. Jon followed the voice. 'Follow me, Jon, and I will show you who are. I will show you how to stop _them_.'

A light emanated from the end of the tunnel, fainter than the voice. Stone faces stared as he walked by; dead men armed with rusted steel. They judged his every step, questioning his place among them. The voice had read his thoughts. 'It's okay, Jon. You are a Stark now, your place is with them.' He recognised the voice this time. _Father!_ Jon ran to the light but it fled from him, further and further with every stride he took. 'Just a little further, Jon. Here you'll find the truth of it all.' He tried to call out, but he couldn't. His body felt strange. As if he had forgotten how to move. His legs felt odd and uneven. But the light was so close. Oddly, He began to pant. The stone faces with rusted swords had long passed, guarding his flank.

It felt like he'd been running for hours when he reached the end. The light had gone and he was surrounded by darkness. 'Jon,' the voice called gently from behind. Jon wheeled to meet it. _Stood_ in the shadows of the crypts, torch in hand was his little brother Bran. Jon tried to call but it was more of a bark.

'It's okay, Jon. This happened to me too. Jojen told me its in our blood.' Jon could not find it within him to speak. He tried…and tried…but nothing.

'You'll understand when you awaken, Lord Stark,' another voice reassured him. It was Robb, tussling his hand between Grey Wind's ears. Jon wanted to weep, and laugh and embrace his brothers.

'You can do it too, Jon. See them, like I can. They appear in my dreams too. Robb and Father. When I need them most. That's why they have come.'

'He's right, my boy.' Ned Stark lurked out of the shadows as well. 'We are all beside you now Jon. You'll need us…for the night is dark and full of terrors.' He didn't understand. Those were the words of the red women. Suddenly, Robb, and his father, burst into flames and fluttered to the cold ground as ash. Bran…changed, quickly growing wings, black as night, and an eye on his head even blacker.

' _Follow! Follow!'_ Bran squawked at him, as he flew off towards the way out. Jon pursued, faster than he ever was. He was on four legs instead of two, yet he hadn't realised till then. Bran…or whatever it was flew out of the crypts into the heart of the Wolfswood. He sniffed around, with no trace of his brothers or sisters amongst the earthy smell of decay and soil. Bran had gone, however. Jon ran, for a time, trying to find Winterfell. How had he ended up in the Wolfswood?

He picked up the smell of fresh blood, and followed the scent. It lead him to a moor of bare trees, cut down, poorly. A garrison of about a hundred men were stationed beside the road. The road went back deep into the Wolfswood. Jon noticed a Raven, larger than most, perched in the tree, simply watching the men. It was Bran for sure. Jon scurried over, ever silent. Bran noticed Jon all the same, though. _'Watch! Watch!'_

Jon looked…and the sight was horrifying. Men lay bloody and stripped of their skins. The smell was worse. The rotten meat of man flared through Jon's nostrils, a stronger stench than he was used to.

Ned Stark came up behind them once more. 'Don't you see, Jon, your country men need you. Roose Bolton has brought hard times upon The North.' Robb came too.

'They have suffered because they fought with me. You can still help them. They are what you need if you are ever to rule The North a Stark. Gather them all and end this Jon. Bring peace to the realm and let no more innocents die because of us.' Robb scratched Jon's head, the same as he did with Grey Wind, then walked away. Jon tried to call them back…but nothing. _Don't go. Don't leave me alone in this world._

' _You know nothing, Jon Snow,'_ a familiar voiced uttered. As he went to look upon the source, he woke, unwillingly.

Jon sat up from his bed, heart racing and his body drenched in his own sweat. _A dream, nothing more. They're gone. They're all gone._

'They don't have to be. They can all come back to you, if you will it.' Startled, Jon's heart jumped. The Red Woman lit his hearth, exploding light into the darkness. Jon had to shield his eyes from the wicked blaze.

'What are you doing here, it's the middle of the night.' Jon got up and grabbed his breaches. The Red Woman eyed him as he climbed into them. The look she gave him was unnerving. He didn't trust her eyes. Fires danced behind them, oozing with mystery and deceit. Those eyes seemed to stare into his soul, and he thought he'd realised what his dream was.'Keep out of my head. I agreed to march with him, you have no need to manipulate me in my sleep.'

'I did no such thing, Lord Stark. It was the Lord of Light who showed you your path.' She slowly paced around his chamber, her eyes never leaving his. ' Perhaps Stannis was not the man I thought him to be. Perhaps he was simply the pathway to you, perhaps you're the one who triumphs in the great battle in the snow? The Lord of Light has foreseen a great destiny for you. They are with him now, your family, your lover...'

'What do you want priestess?' He was wary, and his patience short.

'The King would like to see you. He waits for you on deck.' She paced around some more, lighting candles as she did so. Then she looked to him, with those burning eyes. 'What do you know of your mother, please, do tell me? I can show you to her, if you'd like?'

Jon could hear no more. 'I want you to leave.' He stood, trying to usher her out. _She is trying to play games with your mind, nothing more._

'You fear what you don't understand. Fear is for the weak, those who envelope themselves into the darkness. Are you weak Jon Snow? You'll never be a true Stark if you are,' the Red Woman said as she left.

Her departure gave the room an eerie sense, the fires she'd lit dimmed as if she were their fuel. He didn't trust anything about her, perhaps he even feared her. But the flames had left their marks in the ashes. The glowing red embers were alive amongst the soot, dancing into shapes…shapes of men fighting, deep in a forest. A tower stood tall between the trees, but Jon did not recognise it. The trees though he remembered from his dream. Many had been cut down, likely by the men fighting. Then they simply went out, disappearing in a puff of smoke.

Jon didn't know what it all meant. The dreams, the shapes in the fire; was it all just a coincidence or just one of the Red Woman's tricks? He needed some air, and to get her out of his head. He quickly dressed into his pitch black leather armour, strode into his coal leather boots, and topped it off with his crow feather cloak. Longclaw lay freshly oiled on the table. Jon lit a torch and let the blade bask in a rippling red glow. _Magnificent._ Lord Commander Mormont had made him swear to never lose it again; and he kept it close ever since. He sheathed the steel and strapped it to his waist. Armed with a torch against the cold, Jon left to grace his King.

They had set sail almost two days past, but Giantsbane had assured the free-folk were hauled up at Hardhome. Unwilling to part with his ships, and to avoid marching through the incoming blizzard, Stannis opted to join Jon on his endeavour to gather the rest of the Wildlings. His Grace stood boldly up upon the top deck of the ship, looking out at the void blackness of the sea. He made his way up to the steps, passing the two shivering men on guard duty. It was windier at the top. This night was a cruel one. Jon knew his courtesies, he dropped to a knee and uttered 'Your Grace.'

Even this far north, Stannis was the coldest thing there was. 'Do you understand how damaging this is to my cause, Lord Stark?' Stern and gravel toned, Stannis Baratheon, King of the Andals and The First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, had complained since setting sail. 'If your wildlings do not fulfil my needs, you have wasted my precious time, time I cannot claim back.'

 _Lord Stark, he called me._ Jon hadn't adjusted to his new title yet. It didn't feel real. Not from the moment he knelt and swore fealty to Stannis back at Castle Black. He wished his father were here to tell him what to do, how to be a Lord. But he wasn't Lord of anything whilst Roose Bolton occupied Winterfell. And when he returned to Castle Black, with the rest of the Wildlings, he wouldn't be Lord Commander anymore either.

Alliser Thorne said nothing when Jon announced he was to leave the Watch to retake the north. Many of his brothers were outraged, others supported him, as always, but Ser Alliser didn't make a sound. He sat with a smirk as big as The Wall itself. It was him who'd likely become Lord Commander, a shivering thought.

'Your grace, the free folk are not mine. They only followed Mance and he is the only one they'll ever follow.' Cold ocean sprayed up into Jon's face. The winds blew hard and sharp against his skin. Stannis didn't even flinch at it, he was born harder than most men, Jon guessed.

'If the wildlings won't follow me, why are we here? I will not simply allow them into the Seven Kingdoms if they refuse to abide by the laws of _the_ one true king.' Stannis at this point still hadn't laid his eyes on Jon since The Red Woman had summoned him. He just stood and stared intently to the sea ahead.

'I'm aware of that, Your Grace. The free folk are a stubborn people. Are we close?' Jon stared into the darkness that held the Kings attention. Except it didn't seem so dark anymore. Light pierced through the black ripples of the sea, shimmering almost. It was fire.

'We're close, if the Wildling can be trusted. But we are too late. Do you see that Lord Stark? I've been watching it for miles.' Stannis asked, still not letting up any signs of emotion.

'Yes. There are no settlements this far north, it has to be Hardhome.' Jon had an uneasy feeling stirring in his belly. The fire could have been anything, it was hard to tell from afar.

Ser Davos Seaworth, the King's hand, stood at the foot of the lower deck, accompanied by Tormand Giantsbane. 'Your grace, we should prepare for battle.'

'There isn't going to be a battle, Ser Davos. I shan't waste anymore time or men on Wildlings who refuse to follow. Have the fleet turned around. We sail for White Harbour instead.' Stannis turned to pace off. Tormand gave Jon a grave stare, as if he'd been the one to talk Stannis out of a rescue. Davos tried to appeal, but Stannis waved it away before the man took a breath to speak.

Tormand's gaze hadn't left Jon. The both of them knew that thousands were at risk...men, women and children alike. _You must convince him to fight, you must._ Jon attacked Stannis's pride. 'What King lets innocent people suffer when they could do something to help?' Stannis halted. 'Why should they follow _you_? Why should any man, woman or child follow you if you cannot do this for them? You were the King my father gave his life for. His honour cost him gravely in your name, yet you won't even risk yours. If we let the dead slaughter the living for a title, what chance does the living have. None, if we won't even fight for ourselves. Your war is no greater than theirs.'

Stannis stopped. Jon sensed a smirk emerge on the hard kings face, but it faded in a heartbeat. 'Didn't your father teach it's rude to question a King?' Stannis shook his head. 'Press the ships onward. And prepare for battle,' he ordered his men, begrudgingly. 'Lord Stark, you'll make an honourable Warden of The North. Best hope it won't be the death of you,' the King left with.


	3. The Battle of Hardhome

**The Battle of Hardhome**

'Lord Commander!...Lord Commander!' A familiar voice echoed in the distance. 'What are your orders?' Jon lay stunned in the snow. Edd thundered over to aid his brother. 'Come on Jon, if you die I'm going to have to see Thorne wear that smug fucking smile for weeks. Get up, we have to leave. They're going to break through.'

Even disorientated, Jon couldn't help hatch a smirk. Ser Alliser would be pleased to see him dead. He coughed and wheezed before sitting up and taking a glance at the carnage around him. Men, women, crows and Freefolk alike fought with the undead. Dismantled, snarling and vicious, the horde of skeletons, led by The Others, fought relentlessly against the outnumbered living.

Using Longclaw as leverage, Jon Stark hauled himself to his feet. He oddly couldn't recall how he ended up to be in the dirt. 'What happened?'

'While you were taking a nap, the pricks sent more of those dead cunts and the Wildlings won't get on the boats because apparently we're going to kill them. Fucking Wildlings.'

'Where is Stannis? And Tormand? Take me to them,' he ordered.

'They're fighting at the gate. Come on, before more come. We've held the gate, just. The Wildlings claim they've been sending bigger and bigger waves each hour. We need to get everyone back to the ships…alive!' Edd tugged at Jon, roughly. Jon followed his brother in black. They scuttled across an open part of battlefield, towards the tall timber gate that fronted the Freefolk's sanctuary.

Hardhome was accurately named. Carved into an icy bay, it sat inside of sturdy cliffs, which from close up, looked almost as big as The Wall. What used to be a gathering of shanty huts, now we're just scorches on the earth, burned down to ash. The only thing that remained unburnt was its gate and the town hall, which wasn't remarkably larger than the latter of burning huts. It truly was the home of hard people.

Jon spotted Tormand Giantsbane as they got closer, dual wielding Wildling short-swords, cutting down a group of whites. The man was a capable fighter, and had impressive speed for his size. Jon was surprised to see how Tormand fought with such grace.

Another cluster burst through some vulnerable holes in the gate. Three of the latter honed down Jon and Edd. Jon gracefully danced into a right armed back slash, sending Longclaw through the walker's torso, cutting it down in two pieces. He stomped through its skull to make sure it was really dead. The second attacked more ruthlessly, rapidly swinging and clawing at where ever Jon was, not even a moment before. Jon had always been quick. He sliced through its neck after easily side stepping the incoming attacks, whilst Edd made short work of the third.

As the pair reached the gate, Tormand had already pressed on to another foe, Stannis at his back. _Gods, a Wildling and a southern King fighting side by side…_

'Glad you'd could join us, King Crow,' Tormand taunted, as he plunged his blades deep into his enemy. 'I thought you were dead,' he let out a mild chuckle.

'The pack are getting scarce,' his grace observed, struggling for breath as he said so. 'They'll likely rally again…' He chopped his way through another before continuing. 'We need to get as many men back to ships before they strike.'

The King was right. The attack had started long before they're men had even reached shore. Each time, more and more had come. Jon guessed Edd had been the one to save him, he wasn't sure. But he was still alive, and he'd fight till his last breath. But Jon knew heart alone wouldn't win this fight. He needed to get smart. _Think, Jon. Think._

'Lord Stark…in the south, when men die, they stay dead.' Fighting this hard had taken its toll on the King. His breath grew heavier and heavier with each kill. Jon couldn't lose him here, not if he was to stay a Stark.

The last of the horde were crushed by one of the Freefolk's giants. He'd grown used to seeing them by now. He remembered the first time he'd laid eyes on one of the beasts…with Ygritte. A sadness struck his heart, all of a sudden.

'What about fire?' Stannis queried.

'Fucking hell, your fire God isn't real you know? Or does he throw you a pretty gold coin every time you burn something?' Tormand had always been sarcastic, and lacked any notion of being etiquette in the presence of a King. Or anyone for that matter.

'He's right.' Commander Mormont was almost murdered in his sleep to a resurrected white. Fire was enough to kill it. 'Is there any pitch can we use? We set the gate ablaze, they'll have to hold back. If they don't, they'll burn to ash.'

'That's madness. That gate is the only thing holding them off and you want to torch it,' Edd weighed in.

Jon had no other ideas. 'Ay, it won't stop them, but it might give us more time to escape. Tormand, the pitch?'

He tutted. Jon knew he was against the idea. He yielded all the same. 'Its stored near the dock. We'll need more men.' Tormand went off to recruit some fellow Freefolk.

'Your Grace, you must return to the ships. You cannot die here,' Jon pleaded.

'No. I have my part to play in this war…the real war. Go now, Lord Stark. Before they strike again. MEN! RALLY TO YOUR KING!' Stannis roared, as he pierced the sky with his sword. Men clad in boiled leather gathered around, ever ready to fight off whatever was to come next.

'MEN OF THE NIGHTS WATCH, WITH ME,' he ordered. His brothers in black scurried over, a few at a time. By the looks of it, Jon had lost no one, something Ser Alliser would loath. Jon had asked twenty men to step forth for this exhibition. Against his doubts, twenty men had stood forward. Thorne stated each loss would rest on his head, but so far, his conscience was clear.

The Lord Commander led his men across bay. The Wildlings were in a manic, all rushing to gather what they could, before crowding the dock and the longboats. Many were gathering back up in what looked to be some sort of formation, itching to fight back. _So they won't just follow Mance. They will unite for a common cause._ Children were screaming from inside the boats, scared and in need of comfort. Boats battled back and forth against the waves. Not enough of The Freefolk had left for the ship. If the wights broke through, in full force, the battle would surely be lost. Jon pressed on, brothers at his back.

As his posse neared the dock, a Thenn Elder emerged from the crowd to block the way, wielding a beastly axe. The fabled Lord of Bones and a few others joined him.

'King Crow…you think you can come here and destroy our home. I'll send your bones, in a box, back to Castle Black.' The scars across the top of his shiny head flushed red in the cold.

 _I fucking hate Thenns._ 'We have no time to fight amongst ourselves. Those are your people we're trying to protect. They'll all die if we don't.' Jon readied his sword, swaying it loosely within his burnt hand.

The Lord of Bones strode forward. 'If you burn down that gate, this sacred place is lost to them.' His voice was rough and harsh. 'You think you're trying to help crow? Your men will slit our throats as soon as we're on deck. I should kill you now, so I can die with some joy in my heart.' He took a step closer and lightly jabbed his skull staff into Jon's shoulder; a taunt.

Tormand hurried over, in the nick of time, with the men he'd gathered. They were accompanied by one of the Giants. 'Let him through, or I'll fuck you with your own stick.' Tormand actually sounded serious. But the Lord of Bones did not flinch. He just squared up to Tormand, daring him to do it, almost. 'Well, I warned you.'

From nowhere, Giantsbane lashed him across the mouth, stripping the man of his teeth. He picked up the staff, and snapped it across the back of his head with a godawful CRACK. Jon wasn't sure if it was his skull that had made that sound. Tormand wasn't done, however. He kicked the downed Wildling, hard, to the ribs as he moaned in agony from the floor and Tormand kept kicking. The rest just watched, unphased. _That's the Wildling way. Acting a hard man doesn't suffice. With the Freefolk, you must prove it._

Before Tormand could finish the job, an ear piercing screech hissed from atop the cliffs. Everyone looked up upon the source. A thick white fog sat still at the peak. Three shadows emerged from them, twice the size of normal men. Jon thought he knew…everyone thought they knew what was coming. He whispered, 'The gate, Tormand. Be quick about it.' Tormand just nodded as he stared up at The Others. He came back to life in an instant.

'Quickly men, unless you want to walk the snow, dead as an old mans cock,' Giantsbane roared as he led the Wildlings off.

'Lord Commander…' His brothers became boys once more, disarmed by shock. 'What are we to do? What are your orders?' Jon had nothing for them. He couldn't take his eyes off the icy figures in the fog. He remembered it…from Kraster's. It was an Other that had taken that crying babe, Jon was certain. Mormont had assured him he would not see another. _Now I see three…_

'Jon…' Edd prompted. He hadn't looked away either. 'Tell us something, anything.'

'Dragonglass. Go find the dragonglass and make sure Stannis is on one of those ships.' Edd nodded but he did not move. 'Go, Edd. Now!' Then he made haste, with a few of the brothers.

Jon had forgotten about the glass. Obsidian, Sam had called it. It was buried at The Fist of the First Men, dug up after thousands of years...and the self confessed coward had used a dragonglass dagger to slay one of the icy demons. Jon had brought some along, just in case the walkers came lurking at all. They would need it for sure now.

The Others remained atop the cliff, watching. The army of whites hadn't come back yet. Instead, these three had appeared. The one in the middle looked down at Jon, looking him straight in the eyes. Jon did not yield his glare. _I mustn't show fear or weakness._ It screeched; that horrid, ear bloodying screech. Jon turned to his men, donning a doomed man's confidence.

'You are sworn brothers of the Nights Watch. It took great sacrifice to come here and help the people you've known so long as your enemy.' Jon gestured to the walkers, still perched, watching, like a hawk eyeing its dinner. 'Up there, they are your true enemies. They are the _real_ war. The dead, against the living, warmth against the cold. You are the swords in the darkness, the shields that guard the realms of men. You are the watchers on the fucking wall…and The Wall is the place you die…so let's give the fuckers a fight!' Jon raised his sword, as Stannis had. The men cheered and cooed, chanting to the song of 'Snow! Snow! Snow!' He didn't mind being called Snow then.

Jon cantered on towards the town hall, the centre piece of Hardhome, leading his small flock of crows. One of the Others had vanished from above, likely making its way to engage. The rest just studied him. Jon wasn't sure if he should be scared. Did that make him stupid? _Kill the boy, Jon Snow._

All he longed for, in that moment, was a soothing word from father. Or Robb. He'd always imagined taking on a conquest like this with Robb at his back, standing side by side with his brother. They used to pretend together, sometimes, when they were as young as Bran and Rickon. He remembered duelling with sticks as swords in the courtyard of Winterfell and between the towering trees of the Wolfswood. _I mustn't die here. I must live on to take back our home._ Robb was gone now, but Bran, Rickon, Sansa…they were still out there. And Arya, gods he missed Arya. It was enough to spur him for the fight at hand.

They reached the hall, and from the depths of the seven hells, emerged an Other. Taller by a foot than any man Jon had ever witnessed. It's armour was pitch black, guarding its pale, pale icy body beneath. It marched towards them, wielding an icicle sceptre. It could smell the fear from his black brothers.

One engaged, without Jon's leave, yet he didn't say a word in protest. He swung a clumsy overhead chop...the walker parried and the man's steel shattered in his grasp with a piercing clang. Jon's flock scattered like his brothers sword in the wind. The Other leered Jon as he stabbed his sworn brother, deep in the heart. Jon knew the dead man. Some poacher sent from the Riverlands. He'd always seemed rash, and that was the death of him. Jon mustered a whisper, 'and now his watch has ended.'

Jon had decided to be rash, in that moment. He poised his sword and went in for the stab. The Walker stepped aside, Jon relayed and swung for its leg. But he missed again. It's sheer size had disguised its agility. Before Jon could chance another swing, the monster shunted the pummel of its sceptre, lashing it across Jon's temple. Dazed, head ringing like a bell, his vision blurred, Jon fell to the cold, hard ground.

He was deserted, his men had fled. Around him, all he could hear was muffled screaming and panic. A light caught his eye, bright and warm. Perhaps Tormand had the gate alight. Jon tried to call out…but he couldn't find his voice. The walker screeched once more, but with Jon's senses dulled, it's voice was not so piercing now.

 _It's ordered another attack. It will kill them all. It will kill me._ Jon rolled onto his belly, whilst stones dug into his ribs. _Longclaw!_ His Valyrian steel sword laid only feet away from him. He rose to his knees, only to stumble forward onto his face. He felt the blood rush to his nose and ooze into the dirt. Spitting grit out his mouth, Jon reached out for his blade…though he was met with a punt to the guts before it was within his clutches. With another cough and a wheeze, Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, rolled over to face his end. The Walker lowered his sceptre to Jon's heart. A coldness emanated from its tip. _That's darker magic than I could ever know._ Jon closed his eyes, trying to summon the courage he pictured his father having in his moment of death. _An execution. Perhaps it's fitting, for a usurping bastard of a traitor._

Just as he went to take his last breath, Jon heard the battle cry of _the one true king_ and his men, rallying into battle as the stags on their shields. He opened his eyes. The Walker backed off, glaring at Stannis's flaming sword. _Lightbringer_ Jon had heard it been called. Had Stannis gone mad? _He is no ordinary man. He is cold enough to take on the coldest._

The Other swung first, unusually, but Stannis made no attempt to block. He'd learned from the lessons of other dead men. His steel was worthless if it were to make contact. Instead Stannis lunged back, and poised himself for another strike. The walker went once more, biting his sceptre towards the southern King. Once more, Stannis evaded, not letting Lightbringer yield a scratch. Finally, His Grace engaged, yet outmatched by size and strength. The walker seemed to double his height, but the King could not lose here. His war was in the south, truly. Stannis couldn't land a single blow, however. His fight seemed futile.

Stannis feathered its head at one point, still though, his enemy had the upper hand. Neither had dealt the other a scratch until the King got sloppy with his footing and was forced into blocking. With an almighty swing, the walker shattered the legendary Lightbringer into dust. Stannis fell to his knees, exhausted and ready to die. Jon lunged over to Longclaw, scooping up the wolf head pummel into his clutches. He scraped himself up, and stumbled as far as his swirling head would get him. His ear stung, and the taste of blood tainted his tongue.

Jon dropped down into the grit to assist his King. Stannis's men charged down the Other, outnumbering it at least ten to one. But it made no matter, the first who attacked were butchered like cattle. It was distracted at least. Jon could see the gate, now completely ablaze. More had been sent, to clean up the many survivors so far. Tormand's men cut through the flaming skeletons that managed to break through easy enough, yet too many were still getting passed. Time was a necessity, soon a full force would rain down upon them. If that happened, they were truly lost.

'Your Grace, we must leave. Most of your men are already on board.' In truth, not many had made it on board. Thousands and thousands still crowded the docks, still all screaming and panicking. The mission had not gone to plan, they had arrived too late.

'Never! I will stand and fight until I cannot,' Stannis groaned as he got to his feet. He had been bloodied by the whites but still stood strong and stubborn. 'We still have one last trick.' Stannis rummaged beneath his cloak and pulled out a sharpened slab of glassy rock.

'You have the dragonglass?' Jon's burdens felt lifted, slightly.

Stannis put his hand on Jon's shoulder. He didn't seem as cold, now. 'The living won't lie down to these evil tormentors, and we need to be the ones to deliver that message, right now, with them in our faces. Kill him, and they might think differently about marching into the realms of men.'

Jon hadn't met many kings. He barely got a glimpse of Robert Baratheon when he'd visited Winterfell. And Mance Rayder was only a King to the Freefolk. Yet, this man had chosen the _real war_ over the Iron Throne, and to Jon, that made him more a King than any of them.

'I am with you then, my King.' Jon patted the man's shoulder as they focused on the enemy once more.

The last of Stannis's men fought weakly. Three remained, battling over the bodies of their own fallen men. The White Walker plowed through the first, stabbing the man, deep in his guts. The next lunged in to meet a clout from the sceptres pommel. The third man thought to run, but only earned a stab in the back. Stannis boldly stepped forward, once more, arming himself with one of the fallen's sword and a dragonglass dagger.

The White Walker moved in, spinning and swirling its sceptre with each step. Stannis remained still as his opponent lifted up its weapon. The Other brought it down, as if to half his grace where he stood, but it only hit dirt. Stannis swiftly hopped to his left and swung his sword at its neck. The Walker smashed through the sword as if it were cutting a glass cake. Stannis leaped forward with the dagger, only to find himself in the clutches of the ice demon. It hoisted the King up by his throat, with one hand, hanging him without a noose. Stannis dangled there, struggling, trying to kick out. The blue frigid hand seemed to get paler...glowing eerily. It began to freeze around Stannis's throat.

As his life seemed to freeze away, Stannis groaned, he almost sounded scared. A sudden whistle hissed through the air…piercing straight into the back of the Walker, knocking it off guard. Stannis hit the floor like a sack of meat, but lived to fight another day. Tormand Giantsbane stormed into the fight, with a giant at his back. Edd came too, he'd fired the arrow. The Other tore the arrow from between it's shoulder blades. Edd quivered another…then sent it through the air, straight into its chest. The Walker lunged straight at Edd and Tormand, only to be intercepted by the Wildling giant, wielding a lit plank from the gate, knocking it off its feet. The Walker limply crashed into the ground, as Jon had done fighting it. Again, The Other screamed fiercely. A command? A surrender? Jon could not tell, but something was coming now. They could feel it in the ground…it began to quake slightly.

'We need to get the fuck out of here. That gate will be down in minutes and I don't like the sound of what's coming. Grognak, tear that snowflake apart.' Tormand scurried off with whatever men followed; some were in black, some in Freefolk shrouds, others donning the stag within a flaming heart.

Grognak pounded the plank down, snapping it in two and almost crushing the Other into shards, if it had hit. Jon darted to help Stannis up, but it came for him instead. It lunged in, swinging its sceptre, whiskers from Jon's face. Then it went for his head. Jon saw it all the way, his life flashing before his eyes. He didn't remember getting his sword up, but he parried the attack with a thunderous CLAAANGG…Longclaw remained intact, occupying that lethal sharpened icicle. Jon's breath fled from his lungs. The White Walker's face looked clueless. Before another moment passed, Jon knocked the sceptre up and sliced the unarmored throat of the legendary Other that had haunted his dreams when he was a boy. The sceptre dropped as the thing holding it shattered like oh so many swords. Jon was lost for words. What made Longclaw different from the rest, from Lightbringer even?

From atop the cliff side, the other Walkers watched, silently as whites marched behind them in the thousands. Jon ran over to Stannis and hoisted him up, putting an arm over his shoulder.

'Come on, your grace. Truly, we must leave, now.' Stannis was heavier than he seemed. His leg had been hurt, so he limped. They made haste towards one of the docks. Only a few longboats remained ashore, but if Jon and Stannis weren't at The Wall to let the Wildlings through, Ser Alliser could try anything. They needed to be present to enforce their orders.

'Your sword, Lord Stark. It did not break,' Stannis bluntly stated.

'I know,' Jon replied, solemnly. Now he truly owed his life to that blade.

'Lightbringer she called it. I pulled it from the flames of burned gods…my gods. She said it would destroy all my enemies, in the name of The Lord of Light. It shattered as easy a sparring sword.' Stannis limped on, grunting with every step.

They had almost got to the long boat Edd and Tormand had acquired. Crowds of Wildlings pushed and shoved their way into the cold ocean, desperate to climb aboard those boats.

'We're leaving too many behind. The ships can hold more.' Stannis didn't seem the sort to care at all for the Freefolk. 'They're going to die, aren't they?'

Jon's heart sunk. They had failed, really. He came to save all the Wildlings, not a fraction. He couldn't bare to speak, so simply, he nodded his head. They had landed at the boat.

Jon tossed Stannis across the water, as he was clutched into the boat by a sparse amount of his men. Jon climbed in as well. Tormand's face was enough to describe the failure. Jon looked back at the burning Hardhome, while his brothers paddled back to the ship. Some desperate Freefolk tried to pursue, but they couldn't swim far enough.

Only now, could Jon truly see how many remained. Thousands and thousands stretched across the entire bay, the gate burning to cinders to their east. It was almost breached, but that made no matter. The horde at the gates was minuscule compared to the one that lurked atop the cliffs.

One of the Wildling giants had joined them, fleeing to the sea. The other, that Tormand had named Grognak, stood and defended his people, when The White Walkers raised their sceptres, ordering a massacre from above. An avalanche of dead piled down the cliff side, summoning more screams of terror from the thousand still ashore. They wanted them to watch…as the dead overwhelmed the living.

Hours seemed to pass, as they watched from the boat. Stannis wore his ice cold expression, as always. Jon thought he even saw a tear in Tormand's eye. He looked back to shore. The sight was a grim one. The screams lasted a while…but eventually they died down, along with Wildling's who had screamed them. Grognak had defended them till his last breath, as gallant a knight in that moment. When the gate dropped, he fell with, swarmed. It took hundreds to bring him down, but he died all the same.

After a time, the town grew silent. Jon thought that was the end of it, but he'd been wrong before. And he was this time. On the long deck, an Other, taller than the rest trotted forward, atop his dead horse. The fighting had stopped with his arrival, with not a drop of warm blood at his back. Where the rest had snowy white wisps of hair, this Walker did not. Instead his head wore what looked liked horns…all in a circle around its head. _It's a crown._ _He's their King…He's the one…_ That King put thousands to the sword, and would put thousands more to the sword before he was done. He was their true enemy; the King of Winter. He stopped at the edge, somehow he must of sensed Jon looking, because he glared straight back. He just looked…then began to raise his arms...and the dead raised with him. All of them…those poor, poor Wildlings. Butchered like animals…and now they have risen again…Jon's breath had left him again, his heart froze where he sat. The Other just smiled…as a dead giant stood up, behind him, another soldier loyal to the army of the dead.


	4. Brothers in Black

**Brothers in Black**

Winter fogs flurried thick above the shrubbery of snow. Many Wildlings lay dead and rotting along the face of The Wall, decorating the outskirts of Castle Black.

 _Not long now._ They had been riding hard for hours, a garrison of two thousand men on horse back. Seventeen men of the Nights Watch, fifteen hundred of the kings men, and five hundred or so Freefolk.

Stannis had left a force of almost ten thousand on ships at East-Watch by the sea _,_ with his remaining cavalry, three thousand strong, camped outside Castle Black's walls. The latter of his army escorted the rest of the Wildlings on foot back to the heart of the Night's Watch. Stannis demanded all the horses shall make haste to base, in attempt to prepare for a march against Winterfell.

Not much had been said on the sail back. A few minor disputes with the Wildlings resulted in three dead, countless beyond that injured and they weren't even at The Wall yet. It would be a miracle if the party made it back without killing each other. Spirits were low, all the men had seen things they wish they hadn't. A well earned rest at Castle Black was welcomed, even his grace agreed.

Tormand rode up beside him. Patches of blood stained his grey cloak; Jon mused whether it was his own. A stone-like greyness coloured his face, a frosting of ice settled amongst the ginger tangles of his beard…the man had truly lost hope.

In an odd way, Tormand Giantsbane had grown into a friend for Jon. The notion of a Wildling and a Crow being allies was still a difficulty to contemplate, and he knew his brothers in black resented him for trusting a man who'd killed those sworn brothers, but Jon enjoyed him all the same.

He had said little since Hardhome so it was a surprise to Jon that he'd come to him now.

'How do we know your crows will keep their word?' _He'll never trust a crow. And why should he? They'd sooner slit their throats before making peace._ Jon was different. The bigger picture was clear as daylight, to him; if they didn't unite, everyone who ever was would be dead, including them.

He was unsure himself if Ser Alisser would open the gates willingly. Their grudge had taken sours turns before, nothing stopped him keeping the gate sealed and leaving them to the cold.

'We don't. I just hope Thorne see's we outnumber him almost fifty to one. And a giant. One look from atop The Wall and he'll open the gates. I know it.' He was still Lord Commander and his orders were still in place. Honour was a Knights mantra, and Thorne could at least shred that much.

'We're not the only ones with a giant on our side, now. Fucking Grognak. The big bastard never could run from a fight.' Tormand sounded halfway between angry and depressed, spitting venom in his words, with a deep northern grunt.

Jon remembered it well. How could he not? He saw it, every night in his sleep since. That moment, when the Other King downed the Wildling giant, only to have him rise again, another member of his dead army. The Wildlings they had amassed were not enough to give them the edge over the White Walkers, and none would fight in a southern kings war. They needed a leader to unite them once more, as Mance Raider had done.

'Those people…they listen to you Tormand. You're the only one who can keep them in line, and you're the only one they have respect for. I know you'll never go south and fight for Stannis,' an impatient Tormand interrupted him before he could finish.

'Too fucking right. He put Mance to the torch. The Freefolk would never have fought for him before…your Fire King has no chance now.' Tormand kicked his heels into his horse, striding off. Jon did the same, mirroring his pace, but he struggled to keep up.

'But maybe they'll fight for you. You could be their leader.' Jon was sure Tormand would be on on board. Who better to lead a band self defined savages? They respected him, Jon did to; they had been through a lot together.

'And when I take up this crown you offer me, will I have to get on one knee, swear I'll fall on my sword when you feel like it?' Tormand spat. 'Piss on that. We do not kneel for any man. Especially a southerner.' Tormand rode off again, Jon made no attempt to follow this time. There was no speaking to the man. The Wildlings were as stubborn as Stannis, and Tormand didn't seem in any mood for company. That they had in common at least.

Castle Black was within sight now, tucked nicely behind The Wall, standing barely a fraction from the bottom. He was awed upon every glance, even after standing atop it, even after climbing it, The Wall remained just as magnificent as the last time, all the while wondering what magics had conjured up this great monstrosity. Jon eyed atop The Wall. He could see a few shadowy figures patrolling the shack like outposts. _But how many times will they blow the horn. One for friends, two for foes…and three for them._ The party had been spotted, giving way to the first AAAAHOOOOOAAAAA.

Moments passed and they did not hear another, to Jon's relief. Jon cantered off to the front of lines, where Stannis rode. The crank of the gate to the tunnel thundered off for miles, loud and in use of some oil. Somewhat down The Wall, lay the carcass of the giant Grenn had killed in the tunnel. Jon guessed Ser Alliser had it put there as a message to the Wildlings. He'd have it burned before he gave up his power. Chills crept up his back just remembering those blue, giant eyes. _That one coming back to haunt us…a pitiful fight it would be._

A flurry of doubts sat in the pit of his stomach, as Jon tried to imagine every possible reaction his men would have when he returned alive. A warm welcome was far from what he expected. Samwell Tarly however, he was eager to see. Old books were a resource that may prove useful, despite the limited range of reading at Castle Black. _Whatever magics the north holds, I must know as much as I can. Maybe they have more to fear than fire, dragonglass and Valyrian steel._ If anyone could scour through those dusty old pages and answer his many questions, it would be his dear friend Sam.

Entering the tunnel, into Castle Black had always bred a sense of fear of some sort. Terrible stories had always been welcomed through this tunnel, and another far more terrible rode through the frigid cavern this time. Jon's breath was thick and harsh, he felt the nip in the air to his core down here. The frosted earth crunched under the weight of a thousand horses, as the party returned home. No torches lit the way; the tunnel had likely not been touched since dragging the Giant out, Jon guessed. They followed the light splitting through the darkness, like flaming swords, as the gate was hauled up.

Upon entering the courtyard, the whole Watch looked to be gathered, all armed up to the teeth with the last of Castle Black's steel, backed by over a dozen archers and more men than that surrounded the ramparts armed with crossbows. _And the crows will never trust the Wildlings…and why should they? Bitter enemies brought to a standstill because of me._ The tension was thick in the air, like a foul stench. Was this an ambush, set up by Thorne as a last stand? But no one made a move, everyone rode through slowly, a sign of peace of sorts.

Jon wondered if he should feel accomplished for bringing these two mortal foes so close without any conflict. He knew his brothers wouldn't appreciate the gesture, fighting Wildlings was all they knew, and the only family they would ever have had died had fallen to these people.

A door burst open suddenly, and brother fired a warning shot in shock. Stannis's men drew arms immediately, and circled their King in defence, but not a man in that courtyard said a word. It fell silent as the crypts at Winterfell. Before tensions could arise anymore, Ser Alliser Thorne, broke the silence upon entering the yard, accompanied by Bowen Marsh and a few of the other officers, a rough echo escorting their every made their way up the steps, no doubt to look down on the Wildlings they considered as scum and assert their unjust dominance.

'How many did you lose?' Thorne queried, his eyes daggers, staring Jon to death in his fantasies. A familiar look Jon had grown much used to, he knew how to parry this standoff of 'light chat'. _I shan't rise to his games, not even once, or he has already won._

Jon was blunt but honest. 'Four brothers fell in battle. Their like will never be seen again,' he said, trotting off, giving the knight no room for reply. Jon wouldn't give him the satisfaction of having a war of words. Ser Alliser seemed to have sunk his heels deep, Castle Black was truly in his clutches now, no doubt. Many of the men had likely sided with the veteran in Jon's absence, and he was sure the words he'd had with the remaining forces of The Nights Watch were no better than poison. Mayhaps Samwell was his only ally here, now.

As the Wildlings poured through the home of their enemy, not a word was uttered from a man in black. Good lands below The Gift would be occupied by the Freefolk, at Jon's order. Stannis was still strongly against allowing them through without some sort of fealty sworn to him, but Jon had insisted, as Warden of The North, that they would be kept under his rule, with bent knees or nay. All that was important now was convincing Tormand to Lord himself over his people, to keep them in order, despite his reluctance. _A difficult task it will be._

After a time, the half a thousand Wildlings had set foot south, and for some, it was for the first time. They'd soon settle somewhere safe, for a time, before Jon found a place more permanent for them. The rest wouldn't arrive for days, giving Jon some time to prepare himself for a southern war he'd sworn to stay out of, many nights passed, in front of one the scarce faces of his old gods. Was he spitting on those vows, once more? He'd broken many; laying with one of the enemy, putting his sword through The Half-hand, _a brother_ , and now he was essentially deserting. _No…you mustn't think that. You're coming back, one day, with the north at your back. These are your brothers still, and they will be until your watch has ended._

Jon jumped down from his saddle, tied up his horse and made haste for the kennels. Nothing angered him more than seeing Ghost confined like a common hound. He was a dire wolf, his kind fronted the sigils of his house, his place was on a field of white, not in a cramped pen. He unbarred the door and freed his loyalist companion. The great white wolf scuttled towards him, head dipped, looking almost sad in Jon's eyes. _Gods, it's good to see you, old friend,_ he thought.

Jon took of his glove, exposing his vile blistered hand to the cold, and scratched behind his wolfs ear. His fur was soft and warm, something Jon had grown to appreciate during his time freezing at The Wall. Almost nearing the size of a horse, his weight knocked Jon into the grit as he pounced to lick his face. Jon let out what was nearly a giggle to return the embrace, as he lay in the snow, being smothered by his wet, rough tongue. _You're free now, boy. No one will lock you up again, I'll be sure to put a stop to that. Come now, Sam must hear what has happened._ He understood, he always understood. Ghost was like that, even Bran had said, in his dreams, that him and Ghost were entwined somehow. He padded alongside him, silently, ever guarding him, as he went to see Sam.

The stairwell down was dim, with only a torch lit at the doorway. Odd, the place seemed deserted. Jon opened the door, breaking the quiet with a rusty creek from the old hinges. Just as he saw it last, books flooded the tables, only they had gathered dust over the open pages, which was curious.

 _Conquests of the First Men,_ Jon read has he peered over some of the titles. It seemed no one had attended the library since he were here last. Jon was worried now. Sam hardly had friends here, and the Kraster's girl would likely have brought trouble, but the room was like a crypt. No fires, barely any torches lit, not even Mormont's crow made a peep. That he could enjoy, however.

He snooped a while, eyeing many writings on dragonglass, that looked to of been read already. _Ah, Sam. You likely have the answers to my questions already,_ Jon thought.

He dropped his torch into the hearth to soothe the chill in the air, whilst Ghost surveyed around with his nose. In the midst of silence, Jon heard a woman whimper through the door to the bed chamber. His instinct insisted the Red Woman was playing one of her mysterious tricks. _It's nothing but riddle after riddle with that one._

To his surprise, when he cautiously opened the door, Samwell Tarly and Kraster's daughter happened to be red faced, heavy of breath and barely clothed. Half the country was at war in the south, death marched from the north and his shy, cowardly friend was busy bedding other men's wives. Gilly lit up to her cheeks, redder than Dornish wine, whilst Sam could only stutter into casual conversation, trying to find his breath. _Sam has indeed found his Gillyflower. At The Wall of all places._

'J-Jon. You're back, so soon. Did you and Stannis rescue the Wildlings? Some of the men said you weren't coming back, but I told them it was nonsense.' Sam struggled into his breaches, his weight unbalancing him. Gilly darted passed Jon, giving him a shunt on her way out. Jon could only burst into laughter at his brothers endeavours.

'Bloody hell, Sam, the world is on a knife edge and you're cooped away in a library doing…well…that.' Jon's stomach hurt after a while, despite the broken oaths, he was humbly proud of Sam.

Sam could only wear a shy but cheeky grin as he nodded his head eagerly. 'You mustn't tell a soul, the brothers would kill me if they knew.' Above the man's cocky smirk, his eye was blackened, his lipped cracked red with dried blood, and he limped over to his cloak. _It looks like they have already tried._

'What happened? Who did that to you?' He knew he should never have left him there. Sam was too loyal to him for his own good, and both were resented by the superior officers, Ser Alliser was paramount to that notion.

Samwell looked up innocently, doing all he could to hide his cowers, barely muttering. 'The brothers…they wanted Gilly. I wouldn't let them,' his eyes scattered, Jon watched, as they looked to the floor, the ceiling, scanning the walls, everything but Jon's eyes. Ghost snuck in, silently as always, tucking his head under Sam's hand, calming his nerves almost. Sam met him by ruffling behind his ear, and spoke on. 'They didn't get her though…or me, thanks to Ghost. Ser Alliser had him penned after that, so I stayed down here.'

'I'll put a stop to this, I promise you, Sam. I won't leave you like this…but come, I have a few things that need tending to, apparently,' he said, pointing at a over dozen scrolls on the table.

Sam led him back through to the library, lighting a few candles on his way. The room lit up slightly, one tiny light at a time. He limped across the room to fetch cups, and gestured Jon towards the wine. Jon filled a flagon from a tap, and pulled out a chair close to the heat. Sam joined him, and unveiled a bundle of scrolls and letters, some had seals still unbroken.

Jon broke the silence, 'we clearly have much to discuss.' He scooped up a few unbroken ones, barely curious to what dark words read within. The first was sealed by the Giant in broken chains, sigil of House Umber. Despite his qualms, upon breaking it, the words read soft on Jon's eyes. 'Lord Umber has invited myself and my men to Last Hearth to swear fealty to me.' _A queer gesture. Father had always spoke of his antics to get the farthest on the good side of his liege-lord, and Lord Umber has no love for the Boltons._ The Umbers were the first banners to rally to Robb, and the Great-Jon proudly wears the honour of naming Robb a King in the North, before any of the rest. It was no surprise to Jon he was the first to his aid.

Sam didn't utter a mere word, just smiled and nodded shyly, as he often did when he felt nervous. Jon didn't like it. _How can we not banter over his first woman. The damned vowels don't forbid this._ Jon placed down his letters, and poured cheap red, dark as blood, into their cups. He took a deep swallow before he spoke, letting the sweet flavours wash down his throat.

'Sam, how did you…you were beaten half to death and back, by the looks of you.' When the Lordling let out a cheap smirk, Jon couldn't resist a chuckle, laughing into his cup. He felt like a boy again, when he, Robb and Theon used to sneak wine away, and drink in the broken tower, talking about girls. Father had caught them once, but he was warm when he spoke with them. Back when they had live in The Eyrie, father and Robert Baratheon used to drink on the sly many a times, under the nose of Jon Arryn, he'd told them. But when Lady Catelyn found out, she had Jon and Theon punished, rather harshly, under the charge of poorly influencing Robb. His spirits dimmed all of a sudden, thinking of her, forcing him into another swig.

Sam gulped deep, then readied himself against his excitement. 'V-very gently, I might say. At first.' He still couldn't muster any eye contact with Jon, but he was amused. _Ah, this place has made him happy, at least once. After everything, he can still thank this terrible fate for Gilly._

It made him sad to think of leaving his friend here, alone, in a place he quietly hated so much. The Wildling girl couldn't last much longer, with all the brothers so riled, she would surely have to go soon. It wasn't a safe place for him, his Wildling runaway and her babe. But what could he do? Stannis would pardon a potential Warden of The North of his Night's Watch vowels, but not a cowardly discarded son of a traitor in the south, who was acting a Maester. _A Maester…_ if he could do one last thing to save his brother, a brother as true as Robb or Bran or Rickon, it could be this.

The Watch was in dire need of a Maester, and Jon could sell that song to Stannis, and even Ser Alliser, with ease. He couldn't argue with any terms to get a new Maester. Gilly could travel with them, by ship from White Harbour, and her child. Oldtown was as safe a place as any, for sure safer than anywhere near here. He'd always nattered on about the thousands of books, packing their library's. He would have a comfortable life their, for a while. _The least he deserves. And maybe he could join me at Winterfell, now Maester Luwin is gone,_ Jon thought to hisself. After the war, where, battles had been won or lost, perhaps it would be easier to sway Stannis into pardoning Sam from the black. _We'll see, in time, old friend._

Jon drunk deep and wished that this would not be his last drink with Samwell Tarly.


	5. The Watchers on The Wall

**The Watchers on The Wall**

Droplets splashed down from the cracked ceilings above, the only sound to grace the quiet of the Winterfell crypts. Torches lit the path towards the end, though it seemed like there was no end, looking from here…only darkness, ready to swallow up anything that dared venture near it.

But there was an end, a light splicing through the void of black, Jon could see it. He followed, on all four legs. He could smell rotten bodies and old, old bones, buried beneath the stone Starks, with their rusting swords. Jon didn't feel them eyeing him so sourly now, perhaps they had forgiven him, maybe even accepted him among them, or they simply did not care from the beginning. Either or, he didn't feel the despair he did as a boy being down here. _I'm not a boy, nor man. I am a Dire wolf, a Stark, as much as them. I am Ghost,_ he realised.

Bran had said as much in a place just like this, many moons ago, he remembered, vaguely. Jon knew of Wargs from the Wildlings; he'd even killed one, once. It seemed odd, did they remain in the animal if they were to die? _Perhaps one day, I'll find out._ Yet, he found himself padding down through the dark, underneath his home.

The light neared and grew bigger, brighter. He began to run, an eagerness glazed over his fears, marshalling him to go on. How could he not be curious at least? _If this is truly happening, if father, and Robb, and Bran are truly in here, somewhere, them I must find them._ The light opened up to him, as he passed through it. He half expected to see the Wolfswood, yet a cold wind crept through the exit, clawing against his fur like an icy flurry of swords.

Sniffing around, Jon could only smell blood, a scent that lead him across a snowy moor, through a wood of astoundingly tall oaks, then a clearing that caught the attention of the sun. One weir-wood, pale as milk, stood solitary in the basking sunshine that rained down between the gaps of the larger tree's canopies, drowning it from top to bottom in light. He knew then, that his dreams had taken him up beyond The Wall.

He snooped around cautiously, daring not look at the face in shame. It happened to be the great weir-wood he had sworn _The Black_ to, the vowels he was a abandoning. _Have I been brought here as a reminder?_ He mustered a glance, eyeing the red bleeding from its eyes, below that, a wide-open, hollow mouth that almost screamed at him when he looked. 'Traitor,' he thought he heard it say. _Traitor. I'm sure of it._ Had he betrayed the Nights Watch? He may have sworn loyalty to The Watch but he was sympathetic to the Freefolk's cause, and his house, and true family were in dire need of saving. Was helping the people you loved such a sin? Perhaps that's why they swore away their families, their unborn children and the women they could have loved; because they taint you away from your duties.

He pressed on, away from the judging eyes of the now silent face of his gods. After some time, he'd found The Wall, not a particularly difficult task, just a single look to the sky from at least ten miles in any direction and you could spot it. The trees died down in numbers and Castle Black neared on the frigid horizon. He ran, faster than he'd ever run before, a strange, but refreshing feeling. As he got closer, Jon noticed the gate was open, both sides, leaving the castle exposed to all. _Is this what I have done to The Watch…opened their gates to the world?_

The tunnel was just as cold as it had ever been, even with thick layers of fur guarding him from the frost in the air. No torches were lit, the only light came from the other side. The yard was empty…deserted almost. It was as if his mind was trying to trick him with guilt, showing him the true consequences of his actions. This couldn't be real, even if it felt as much, it had to be dream. _Sometimes it's oft hard to tell,_ Jon thought. He smelt venison cooking in the kitchens, but when he snuck inside, nothing. He padded back outside, going across the ramparts of a ghost town. Night had crept up on him, and black had been painted across a red sky.

In the corner, near the armoury, Jon eyed a cluster of men in black cloaks huddled underneath a torch, all armed with dirks and daggers. _Queer..._ he thought to himself, as he watched his brothers. He did all he could to stay hidden, all the while watching and trying to gather up the words being muttered. The voices were quiet and hard to hear but the word 'traitor' echoed from man to man.

A straggler, he strangely recognised, joined the party, shunting his way through the crowd, looking for something, almost desperately. The group split apart to allow him through, growing silent as they did so, then merged back together, almost as if they were surrounding the man. _That man seems oddly familiar._ He couldn't be sure, it was dark and he could barely make out the faces of most but some he knew all too well. Ser Alliser and Bowen Marsh were amongst the crowd, shadowed by First Builder Yarwyk.

Ser Alliser went to him, announcing 'for The Watch,' before driving his dagger deep into the belly of the black haired man. Bowen Marsh stepped forth next, echoing the knight. 'For The Watch,' he said before stabbing the victim of this relentless ambush. The rest queued forward, spilling the blood of the defenceless man, all to the song of 'For The Watch.'

After the last man pulled his blade from the heart, the litter scattered like spooked crows, pouring back into their quarters as if it were any other night. When the yard was clear, Jon scurried over to investigate. The black haired man lay in a pool of his own, cold blood, like spilled wine in the snow. _An ambush, murder,_ a voice spat in his mind. A typical deed from Ser Alliser, but the others…what had that dead man done to deserve being slaughtered like an animal.

As he neared the man, Jon recognised him with sore eyes…it was _him,_ laying there, with dead open eyes, staring deep into nothing. He woke in that moment, sweating through his bedsheets, Ghost stood over him, leering into his eyes, looking curiously at him. He felt his heart was beating itself out of his chest, whilst Ghost sensed the anguish within him. He ushered the wolf down, threw off his sheets and rubbed his hand across his body, feeling for wounds. His skin was cleared, and untouched, bar his burnt, scarred hand. _But I saw…I saw them…all of them. For The Watch, they said, whilst branding me a traitor. I saw it through Ghost's eyes._

He wondered whether he was foreseeing his own destiny, perhaps a fate for the nights to come. Whatever answers he could conjure his head, none made him feel safe in this place. The Wildlings presence caused too much discontent amongst the brothers, and Jon had heard what distraught men of The Nights Watch were capable of, during the mutiny at Kraster's. Another Lord Commander felled by his own men, it was a sickening sight for sure.

Daylight cracked through the creaky wooden shutters, paired with a howling wind forcing its way through the gaps in the window. Jon got up and pulled them open, letting the cool wind brush against his warm body, ever reminding him how far north he was. From his window, in the Lord Commander's chamber, the majority of the yard was in view, except the armoury, where the knives were dropped. He dressed, in his all black leathers, and his crow feather cloak, as custom. _I am still Lord Commander, whether they want me or not,_ Jon thought bitterly.

Longclaw hung in its sheath, on a rack. He strapped it to his waist, just as a precaution, before gracing his men for the last time. The day was not as harsh as the last, the sun shined through a cloudless blue sky, sparkling beams off the crevices of The Wall. It basked tall in the sunlight. It looked the same, though; it all looked the same, The Wall, the yard, the stables, yet somehow he saw it different. _This place isn't my true home…I won't ever miss it as I have Winterfell,_ he thought, mournfully.

The morning busy was loud and stressful, as men loyal to The King readied themselves, and their horses for the long awaited march south. The last of the Freefolk traveling from the Hardhome ruins, had long passed through, and moved on to join the other clans settling on lands of The Gift. The brothers drank deep during those nights, making them rowdy and boisterous. Trouble had been brewing for days, yet despite his doubts, most kept in line.

Not a word was said to him as he paced over towards the armoury. It was empty, but he had no interest in steel. The ground in which he saw himself murdered was deserted, unscathed, and leaked no signs of mutiny. _It was all just a dream…a nightmare,_ he thought to himself, but he wasn't convinced this was all in his head. He remained there for some time, simply looking, thinking about all the wrongs Ser Alliser had slandered his way, what tales he could of told to turn the men sworn to serve him against him.

His thoughts were disturbed by an ambush from The Red Woman. 'Do you see yourself, lying in the snow, surrounded by your own blood, blood your so called brothers spilled in weakness.' Once more, she had surprised him, and he'd given up guessing how she knew the things she did.

'It was just a dream, nothing more,' he replied bluntly, his eyes not leaving the empty spot on the ground. It was all he could say to convince himself, yet he wasn't. It all felt too real, like a vision of sorts.

'Is that what you truly believe? What you saw may not be true in this life, Lord Stark, but in another world, where you would have made other choices, your fate has been laid out before you. Or do you deny what your own eyes scream out at you? Dismiss the truth, brave man, it makes no matter, it is still a truth, one of many. Everyone will know the truth, someday, when you and Stannis take The Seven Kingdoms, with a trail of scorched noble houses left in your wake and our Lord of Light will bestow his true powers onto you both.' She approached him, cupping his cheek in her hand, forcing his eyes to meet hers. Glares of red shone from the ruby stone, around her neck. Her hand was hot, burning almost, against the harsh northern weather. She stared, the same intriguing way she often stared, as if she was listening to his thoughts, the stare that gave Jon chills. _Ironic, for a woman so committed to fire_ , he mused.

Jon snatched up her hand, and threw back his coldest stare, yet only to yield a smile from her.

'These men are my brothers, in another life, they would have betrayed me a thousand times over for the things I've done, the gods too. One day they'll catch up to me for my sins, when this is all over.' He was sceptical about the Gods in truth, all of them, even despite the things he'd seen. Explaining it all would take a lifetime, and querying the mysterious goings on would not help them with the wars to come.

He threw down her hand, and paced off to finish up his business. She could only yell 'think on your sins, Lord Stark. The Lord of Light will not punish you for acts done in his service, but many others will try to…your brothers included.' He didn't grace her with a reply.

He really didn't like the priestess, and he trusted her less than that. Silently, he thought her a fanatic, obsessed with the flames that _spoke to her._ Yes, she knew things that no ordinary woman could luckily guess, but it didn't make her magic.

Bowen Marsh crossed his path, in the yard, blankly passing him, looking at anything that was not his face. _You were the second to sink your knife in my heart, saying For The Watch like it was a prayer._ Jon gave him a courteous nod, but got no response from the man. His mind snarled _traitor,_ like venom. He felt himself looking over his shoulder, now, with not anyone in sight he could truly trust. Countless likely hated him, but how many would let that stew into murder?

As he opened the door to the mess hall, wondering what hassle waited for him, the brothers were deep in chatter, but fell quiet upon his arrival. Lord Commanders rarely ate with their men, but Jon had laughed into his cup numerous nights with these men. _Those days have long passed. I've lost the support of my brothers._ Hobb brought over a boiled egg, two bits of bread burnt black and salt pork to break his fast, all without saying a word to him. Jon wolfed it down quick, barely tasting his food and left his men to fester in their words about him.

As he sulked down the steps, the front gates opened to allow another garrison of calvary and foot soldiers south, to get a head start setting up The Kings camp. Ser Davos Seaworth, The King's own Hand, was the overseer of this operation, sitting atop his horse with a sack of his own finger bones dangling around his neck. An odd notion, Jon thought, to wear his punishment so boldly.

He went over to The Onion Knight, who struggled to keep horse settled as the gate cranked open. Ser Davos wasn't a particularly tall man, nor did he seem to don a high borns swagger, which was refreshing to see in this time of carnage where nobles preyed on the weaker. He seemed an honest, loyal man, but in truth, better men had served his role, nobler men. _Perhaps that's why he is the best man for the job…he knows of the powerless so he can appreciate their needs._

'She doesn't like me very much,' Ser Davos spoke up. Initially Jon thought he meant the priestess, but he was speaking of his spooked horse. 'She knows I'm supposed to be on a boat. The sea was always a simpler world than the land. You had less men to question the one in charge, less egos trying to stir up trouble.' By the sounds of it, Davos tried to speak higher than himself, but his low born accent shone through like silver in the mud.

'Ay, the mainlands politics cause chaos. I always preferred to stay out of the politics,' he proudly claimed in reply.

Davos wheeled his horse, losing control once more. He brushed behind the mares ear to soothe with not much success. He replied anyway, 'so did I. Too much ruckus for my liking. But he is the one true king of Westeros, so I'm as much a part of it as you, despite our reluctance.' Then the knight checked over his shoulder, minding his voice as he went on.

'There's something else, Lord Stark. I heard some things from your men…it is likely Ser Alliser Thorne will take over command upon you leaving, and his first order of business will be a suicide mission to deal with the Wildlings you let south. Your brothers are behind the decision, despite them being fully aware they won't come back. They feel The Watch is a lost cause with The Freefolk being allowed through and will happily allow Castle Black to become a ruin.' Three brothers paced passed, silencing him. Jon didn't know what to say in response though, what could he do?

When they were alone again, the knight spoke on, ever serious. 'This cannot happen, Lord Stark. Being a southerner, my opinion on the matter means very little, but even I recognise the importance of The Nights Watch. Ser Alliser will burn it to ashes to see a fraction of those Wildlings into the dirt. With whatever power you still have here, you must stop this. Reason with him, stray the others from doing this, just do something or this order will be lost.' Ser Davos scrunched his face into a frown similar to the one Stannis wore.

Jon didn't take the man for a liar, but Ser Alliser, despite being an arrogant prick, was devoted to The Watch. Would he really see it destroyed just to deal a final strike against the Wildlings? Then again, his hatred for the Wildlings was no hidden thing, and he'd pulled petty stunts like this before to spite Jon. _No, this is too far, even for him._

'I'll talk to him. He must know the Freefolk are not our enemy, and we need them if we are to survive the long night.' Jon would say what he could, but Thorne had a renowned stubbornness about him, it would be a hard task for sure.

Knights, infantry and the rest lapped out of Castle Black as the gate opened, all passing their Lord Hand, without a twitch. _They don't respect him,_ Jon sympathised, saddened by the notion. _But Stannis does, and that's what's important._ The Onion Knight dipped his head, courteously, leaving Jon with a polite 'I'll be seeing you, Lord Stark.' He cantered off after his men, riding his unnerved mare. Jon went to prepare for his own departure. _I have till dusk to soak up the last of this place._ Strangely, he started to miss The Wall already.

Jon spent most of the day trying to say his farewells, but most had none of it. Edmund Tollet had been the least unpleasant, and more surprisingly, not at all sarcastic. He'd given Jon a firm handshake, wished him luck on his journeys and made him swear he would return with support, and he vowed just that.

Since Stannis agreed to give Sam leave to join the order of the maesters, he hadn't set foot out of the library. A wise decision, Jon thought, many were bitter to see them both abandon, but he knew it was for the best. Though he had yet to handover his command to Ser Alliser, so just before sundown, after Jon had readied his things, preparing for the long march ahead, he had the knight summoned to the Lord Commander's chambers.

Ser Alliser Thorne presented himself just as the sky turned as black as his cloak. Jon stood from his chair to greet him. 'Ser Alliser, I'm glad you could join me,' Jon lied. He poured two cups of wine and gestured him to take a seat. Thorne didn't move.

'Isn't it time you deserted, Lord Snow.' The words he'd hated for so long, now meant nothing to him, for he was a Stark now. Lord Snow had been a pet name Jon looked forward to losing.

'As I have said, when the North is won, I'll have enough men to march back here to fight in the Long Night. Even as Warden of The North, I will support my brothers.' He meant every word, but his nemesis spat at them all the same.

'They stopped being your brothers the day you opened the gates to the enemy. You go, Lord Snow, but when you return, you'll be met with closed gates.' Ser Alliser stepped forward, edging closer. 'When you take back your traitor fathers seat, do you think we care what you do? Stannis can grant you all the pardons in realm, Tarly too, but you still will always be a deserting bastard son of a traitor.' For a long time, they had despised one another, and no love would be lost between them now. The words stung him, yes, but Jon rose above it, for the last time.

Jon tried to make him see, reasoning with him, as a last stand. He felt his voice grow bolder as his frustration flared. 'The Wildlings are not our enemy. When The Wall was first built, all those years ago, by The First Men and The Children of The Forest, do you really think it was to keep out Wildlings? We are supposed to guard the realms of men, from what is really up there, not people with the same blood as our own ancestors. That wall is there to stop one thing…The Others. And if we don't unite, we will all die, they will all die, everyone will die.' Jon's voice croaked with anger, as he slammed a fist onto the table.

'Words are wind. For thousands of years, The Watch has battled with The Wildlings, and for thousands of years, we've held this castle. They've murdered and raped and pillaged our countrymen, they've killed more of my brothers than I can count, and I will not let them settle below our lands.' Jon realised in that moment, Ser Alliser would be the death of The Nights Watch, without the Freefolk having to lift a finger. Barely fifty brothers remained at Castle Black, and all of them would die under the command of Thorne. _He'll kill them all, and then we will lose._ He could hope for another man to be elected in his place, but Thorne had spun a web the rest couldn't escape. Ser Alliser became Lord Commander when Jon had set off to Hardhome, he knew that much. He couldn't just leave his brothers in the company of this madman though, who hoped to kill them fighting terrible odds, but there was nothing to be done. He simply had to persist.

'Ser Alliser, you're here so I can hand over the castle to you. My horse is waiting on me, and I shan't keep The King waiting any longer.' Jon was eager to end his last conversation as a Brother in black, after this, he would immediately venture south, to catch up with Stannis's garrison before midnight, and take his fathers place as Warden of The North.

'The moment you range south, Lord Snow, me and my men will light our torches, sharpen our blades and kill those goat fuckers, or die trying. They are our fucking enemy, and I don't take orders off of the bastard of a traitor and a whore!' _My mother was no whore, nor my father a traitor you treacherous cunt._ Jon's anger flared through him, and he could not find it within him to rise above it, this time. He found his blade before he could find his senses, and soon after, Jon's dagger had Ser Alliser Thorne's blood trickling down it, sticky and warm.

'For the Watch,' he muttered, as he felled the one thousandth Lord Commander.


	6. Dark Wings, Dark Words

**Dark Wings, Dark Words**

Wind roared, gushing strong against the dull fabrics of Jon's command tent, with thunderous claps echoing from across The North's mountain ranges. A brazier burned bright in the centre of the sanctuary against the storm. Jon had letters cluttered out atop his table, just as messy as the library back at Castle Black. Four moons had come and gone since Stannis's host had left The Wall. _And still, nothing from The Watch. Not a word._

Each night had passed bringing nothing but hard sleeping, for Jon. As they neared Last Hearth, the columns had come to a stand still and set up their first decent camp in days. Storms had swept across from The Shivering Sea, making the nights wet and droll, but tonight, they were sheltered from the bleak and dismal weather.

And Alliser Thorne's memory kept him from drifting off. It hadn't left his mind. The man made barely a struggle, but he came to Jon armed, and only the gods knew of what his plans were. Jon even left the dagger, buried deep into the dead knight's heart. He'd made a sharp exit after, at the expense of lingering long enough for the body to be discovered.

But four days had passed since then, the host was leagues away and his old brothers must have surely found him by now. Not a single message had been sent, however, and so Jon Stark's anguish grew by the day. Stannis would not forget the killing of a Lord Commander, and if smuggling lost Ser Davos his fingers, what would he lose for murder?

The letters that had come flew in for Stannis and Jon both. Words of fealty, mostly. So far, the North had taken Jon's legitimisation well, many swearing to rally up their banners under the Stark Direwolf once again. Since Jon followed Stannis, they swore to him as well, though much less passionately.

The remaining Glovers of Deepwood Motte sent word claiming to join them when they finally march on Winterfell, attacking the Boltons, blindly through the Wolfswood. The young Mormont girl had said 'Winter is coming, and the Bears come with it,' which was a poetic way to bend the knee, Jon had thought. Between them, they only could muster a modest seven hundred and eight three men, but it was a positive start to his campaign.

Another hundred or so came down from the mountain clans, in full support of destroying House Bolton, claiming them _the false lords of the north._ Jon's heart was warmed by his countrymen, and he hoped to do well by them in command. Jon had almost a thousand men under his fealty already, but only in promises. _And words are wind to some lords,_ he reflected, struggling to think of a noble man who hadn't forsaken one oath or another.

The Umbers of Last Hearth still had almost double that in total, despite half their forces being held captive at The Twins, or fighting for Roose Bolton. Mors Crowfood, a castellan of Last Hearth, sent a Raven urging Stannis to grace the house farthest North with an audience, so they can bend the knee to Jon. The greater version of his namesake, (greater only by name) rotted in a dungeon with his men at the orders of Walder Frey, current Lord of the Riverlands. In the message, the Greatjon's people pleaded for help releasing him from the clutches of that old snake, as a term of fealty. Stannis would accept, accordingly, if the remaining Umber's joined him liberating The North from the Boltons and Ironborn alike first.

Wildlings had sent word as well, claiming to be on route to attack Karhold. Jon had done much work in swaying Tormand to assist him in The North's wars, but after several promises regarding the land they were to be given to live on, Stannis announced them to be independent rulers of the Karstark lands, so long as they can win it from them. Jon had hoped to make peace with the members of his bloodline, but they outright refused to follow another Stark after Robb took Lord Rickard's head. The King declared them enemies of The Crown shortly after; they were Roose Bolton's firmest allies. Tormand could help this much, at least, as repayment for Stannis's help at Hardhome. He struggled to argue with that, so yeilded to the notion, all the while stating how he 'will still never bend the knee to that slave of a fire god,' out of respect to Mance Rayder. However, a Wildling woman accompanied Jon's party to act as a diplomat for The Freefolk, a demand Tormand insisted, with much surprise to Jon. _He hides it well, but Mance has taught him how to play the games of the southern Lords. He's just too stubborn to yield it to anyone._

With The Umbers, Mormonts, Glovers, and the houses in the hills, Jon and Stannis had set to amount almost fifteen thousand men to their cause, including the Wildlings and The Golden Company. Almost ten thousand of those sailed down the Bay of Seals to prepare for an assault by sea against The Dreadfort. The remaining men, with them, had plans to march around the North and gather more houses and subsequently, more armies. The collective of Bolton and Greyjoy armies that infested the country would be surely overwhelmed; the conquest prospects looked to be in good order. But was it enough to take Kings Landing against the Lannisters and Tyrells both?

Jon stripped out his crow black leathers, and climbed down into his straw bed. Warmth from the brazier aired around his enclosed tent, shielding him from the bitter colds of the storm. He would leave his matters till the morning, and tried to get some sleep from this night at least. Perhaps his dreams would be softer, too. Maybe even Bran or Robb or father would visit him in his slumber, though he wanted to see or hear Ygriite more than anything. For the first time in days, Jon drifted off into a near dreamless sleep…

...When he woke, he could remember little. As dawn cracked through the gaps of his tent, Jon sat up, rubbed the tired from his eyes and tried to think hard…but nothing. _Maybe the gods are done with me. Maybe they sent Ser Alliser to test me and I failed,_ he contemplated to himself, assuming his dreams of nostalgic messages were done. Gods likely frowned upon far less sinister crimes; the frown they wore for his would be another issue entirely.

The brazier wafted dull smoke into the air and through his nostrils. Sounds of men waking, and cooking, and practicing their swordplay emanated through the camp. Jon got up, dressed into the same leathers he'd worn since leaving Castle Black, and made haste for his dear friend Samwell Tarley. The rains had stopped, the storm had calmed, and the snow was slushed into a muddy swamp of brown. Jon had to pass several hundreds of men, multiple herds of horses, and countless soaked tents till he reached the rear of the column, where Sam had made camp to keep Gilly away from any lust filled soldiers, eyeing up what could be their last lay with a woman. He thought Sam was worried for nought, but Sam worried all the same.

When he arrived at Sam's slack tent, almost half the size of his own, Gilly shoved her way out, with an empty woven basket. When she bumped into Jon, she fell back into the mud, immediately apologetic. 'Sorry, milord. I didn't see you there.' The girl was a shy one, that much was clear, but he guessed perhaps she feared him based on the first brief encounter where Jon had denied a plea for help escaping Kraster's Keep, a while back.

He gave her a kind smile, and offered her a hand, respectively. 'The apologies are mine.' Jon noticed she was as light a feather, when he hauled her up, with surprising ease. 'Are you well, my lady?' She was no lady of Westeros, but a harmless gesture in his eyes.

'Y-yes, Sam is taking good care of us. Th-thank you, milord. I've got to fetch breakfast for Sam and little Sam.' She bowed, terribly and stormed away, into a sea of prying eyes and filth for thoughts. _She's caught Sam's stutter,_ Jon mused, with a brazen smile.

When entering the tent, he was met by a half naked, soon to be Maester of the Citadel, making childish faces to a laughing bastard baby. Looking at that man, in the flesh, Jon could not conjure, from the deepest reaches within his head, how on this earth _he_ was the first to kill a White Walker in eight thousand years.

'Sam, for gods sake, put some bloody clothes on.' He startled Sam into a fall into his breaches, with him ending up on the floor, like a pig in the sludge.

'J-J-Jon!' Sam awkwardly bumbled to his feet, and tugged up his breaches, whilst Jon pinched himself until it was all he could do not to burst into laughter. 'Will you join Gilly and I for breakfast, she's going to hunt rabbits with Ghost.' Sam had a sly grin painted across his smug face, that accompanied his invitation.

'Minus The Black you're still sworn to, The Citadel make you swear off girls too, you know,' Jon bantered.

'They can bloody try,' Sam guffawed back. 'At this very point in time, I, Samwell Tarley, am participating in a war. Men at war die. So I plan to make the very most of my life while I am still at risk.' He'd preached it as if it were a planned speech. But Jon had not come here for that. His mood fell grim again.

'Sam, did you send the Raven?' Prior to receiving words from the Umbers, and the murder of Ser Alliser by his own hand, Jon ordered Sam to demand Rickon be escorted to Last Hearth, before East-Watch received word of the killing. His baby brothers blood on his conscience was the last thing he needed; Rickon's safety was paramount.

'Ah yes, first thing yesterday morning,' he announced, proudly, oblivious to the grave, foolish mistake he'd made.

'What do you mean yesterday? I asked you days ago?' Jon was stern and impatient, and could feel his temper creeping into his tone.

Sam could sense it, and tried to tread on egg shells, but the shells shattered anyway. 'Well, yes. Little Sam was ill and Gilly was worried so I stayed with her. Don't worry, they were sent just before breakfast…yesterday,' he echoed.

Jon lashed out, like an angry snake, spitting venom. 'Yesterday! Sam, I told you to send the fucking Raven the night we left. What, were you too busy fucking your stolen bastard wife?!' He didn't know what had come over him. _No, Jon, no. Do not forget what you are, a bastard. You hold his name, but you'll always be a Snow. You'll wear it like armour_ , he told himself, slightly ashamed he'd used the word he'd always cringed at for cruelty.

'I-I-I'm sorry, what was so important?' Sam pleaded remorse but he'd completely failed to contemplate the significance of that letter.

Rage within him threw over a table, along with anything he could lash out at within reach, taunting the baby into a wailing cry, but it was all a blur to Jon. He'd seen red, at Sam, at Kraster's daughter, but mostly himself. _How could I be such a rash fool! You knew he was playing his games, yet you played them anyway. Now he is dead and its nobodies fault but yours. Fool, bastard, fool,_ he cursed himself.

Sam soothed the baby, Jon suspected to avoid him. 'Hush now, child. Your safe with me, hush now,' he whispered softly. Jon looked and Sam cradled the babe in his arms. He felt guilty now, bringing a mere baby to tears. And his foolish, foolish actions had potentially ruined his position with Stannis. He cooled himself, instantly, like water over hot coals.

He brought himself speak, nearly distraughtly. 'I'm sorry, Sam. I just needed that Raven sent, quick as you could. It was important…more than you could ever realise.' Sam didn't say a word more than the songs he lulled to little Sam. When the babe shushed, Sam laid him in his makeshift cot; a basket, stuffed with straw and Sam's crow feather cloak stuffed within it. He spoke, finally.

'Don't do that again,' he tried to command, with his sternest sounding voice. Jon looked around at the trashed interior. _Silly boy! Kill the boy!_

'I have to tell you something.' _If he knows he'll understand,_ Jon compromised.

'What is it?' Sam queried, with an uninterested tone, tending to the messed things that scattered the floor.

He turned to pick up the table. Underneath, an empty flagon, two dry cups, and a pool of spilled wine decorated the ground. He picked up a cup and the spilled flagon, tossing it back down dismissing the lack of wine. Wine would of made things easier for sure, even this early in the day.

Sam was intrigued, now. 'Jon, just tell me.'

The truth erupted, like a man desperate for a piss. 'I killed him!' He shouted, unwittingly. He dimmed his voice to a whisper. 'Ser Alliser. I stabbed him, just before we left. He's dead, and when they find him, Rickon will be captured to spite me.'

Before Sam could even think of a response, an uninvited Ser Davos Seaworth came bursting through the tent flaps. 'Lord Stark. We've received urgent news, his grace demands your presence. I'm afraid off salted meat and burnt rocks the cooks call bread will have to wait.'

Sam didn't utter a sound. Jon broke the silence. 'At once, Lord Hand,' he said, trying to sound casual. Jon gave Sam his sincerest look before leaving with The Onion Knight.

As they paced through the camp, alive to the sound of men dining in the morning sun, Ser Davos halted Jon in a quiet spot. 'I don't know what you did at Castle Black, and frankly I don't want to know…but they've sent a Raven.' Jon could feel butterflies flutter around inside his belly. 'Eddison Tollet has been assigned as the new Lord Commander.' _Edd?_ He was certain Bowen Marsh would be elected, or Ser Denys Mallister, but it was a relief to hear his friend rise above those fossils.

'And what of Ser Alliser?' Jon's query was a poor way to mask his crime, but he couldn't bare the thought of Rickon in danger. He had to know what fates would be waiting for his little brother.

'Lord Commander Tollet has sent him to The Nightfort to restore it. I've met the man, he has a cynical sense of humour, that much I can be sure of, but he is a friend of yours I believe, so The Nights Watch will be more supportive with him in charge.' _Edd has covered up my murder…no doubt he knows it was me who killed Thorne. Thank the gods for Edd._

Jon's woes drifted off into the morning breeze. 'He'll make a fine Lord Commander,' Jon confessed.

'There's one more thing.' Just as he did at Castle Black, Davos checked over his shoulder, to make sure no prying ears were listening. 'I've heard whispers that Lady Mellisandre has a plan if Stannis is to fail at all in his war efforts.' Ser Davos wore distraught look, as he eyed around the camp once more. He dropped his voice into a rushed whisper. 'She claims there is power in Kings blood, and so far many have burned at her demands because of that. As I see it, there is only one person around here with Stannis's blood…The princess.'

Jon knew who Davos spoke of. He'd briefly glimpsed the young girl at Castle Black, half her face frozen into a stone-like scales. The other half of her face seemed pretty enough, however.

Davos went on, desperately. 'I fucking love that girl, and somewhere within me, I don't believe Stannis has the heart to burn his own daughter…but the things she says to him…that's what I don't trust.' Ser Davos had no love for the priestess, Jon detected, and he felt the same. She wasn't to be trusted, even if Stannis did.

'What do you want me to do about it?' Stannis was the King, his orders are the law. But Jon had shred Mance Rayder some mercy with that arrow he put through his heart, and he was a Wildling; he meant nothing to Stannis. Yet Stannis had said he'd stripped The King Beyond The Wall of justice, his justice. Jon wasn't convinced Stannis would let that slide twice.

'I am going to strongly implore the idea to wed the both of you, uniting Stark and Baratheon once more, properly.' Ser Davos looked completely serious, despite the girl being Jon's junior by at least ten years, by the looks of her.

'She's just a girl. And I'm a bastard,' Ser Davos cut him off, stern in tone.

'You are Lord Jon Stark, of Winterfell, Warden of the North and she is the daughter of the one true king of Westeros. This is a perfect match. I'm not asking you to love her, I'm asking you to save her.'

He contemplated the notion. _I will never love another, not until I die and return to her._

'Will Stannis agree to it?' Jon was intrigued. Stannis wouldn't be able to trust him more if he were a son by law.

'He will if I make a point to him about uniting houses. He could hardly argue, he legitimised you himself. I know you loved another, a Wildling. But I know you will never harm her, or mistreat her. And mostly, you can keep her out of The Red Woman's clutches. Come now, quickly, we've kept his grace waiting long enough.' Ser Davos urged him onwards.

Jon would need an heir, but she was just a child. He couldn't even think about consummating the marriage; it all felt wrong…but at least it was for the right reasons.

As he entered Stannis Baratheon's tent, he quickly dropped to a knee. 'Your Grace,' he uttered.

The King was stood, intently staring, as he did, into the dancing flames of his brazier. The priestess was beside him, her arms wrapped around him, wearing a satisfied face. 'Stand, Lord Stark.' Stern as ever, he pointed out an opened scroll on his desk. 'Read.'

Jon rose from one knee and did as his King commanded. The letter was from Tommen Baratheon.

 _As the King of the Andals, and the Rhoyner, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, and protector of the realm, I, Tommen of the House Baratheon, proclaim all lands north of the neck, shall henceforth be known as Stark lands, as retribution for my families crimes against his house. I announce, Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, is freed from his vowels of the Nights Watch, I declare him a true Stark, and decree him King in The North, like his brother before him. I exchange this gift as plea for peace in the realm, and an end to the war. King Tommen Baratheon._

He could hardly believe it. _Lord of the six kingdoms…King in The North…_

Stannis cut off his thoughts. 'Do remember you swore to me, Lord Stark. The Lannisters can play their games, I have no means to partake in their follies. What do you make of it?' Stannis asked him with a curious smile, and curiosity infected his eyes too, Jon could see, as the King stared into his fire, like a tempted moth. _He's scared…he's afraid I'll betray him._

It was a bold question, one Jon didn't know the answer to. Yes, he was being called Stark in the south now, but he was in The North, and simply being named The King of it all wouldn't defeat the Boltons. _This is a farce, to drive discontent into our alliance. But Stannis will not trust me after this. I must make him._

Stannis turned away from the flames, prompting a response from Jon. The red woman glared at him as well. He didn't know what to say, so words came spilling out without his leave.

'I am loyal to you, your grace. I swore fealty to,' Stannis shouted before he could finish.

'You've sworn a great many things, Lord Stark. You've broken most of them so far, what's to stop you stabbing me in the back for a crown?' Stannis pulled a knife from his belt, and stabbed it hard through Tommen's decree.

Jon pulled the knife up, ushering Ser Davos's hand to his sword. But he remained calm and still, dropping the knife to ground. He picked up the letter and walked over to the fire. As he threw the decree that gave him Robb's crown into the flames, they exploded into life, showing him a tower emerging from beneath the coals. He felt his neck get warm, and his head and heart burn inside him. The tower had men fighting at its foot; two knights, outnumbered by the look of it. From a puff of smoke, a woman's face emerged, almost whispering. She was oddly beautiful, despite the glowing red from the embers. He tried to make out the words. 'My son,' he thought it hissed. _It's the strangers face of my mother._ The flames suddenly popped and cracked, like breaking bones, then she was gone and all he could see was a trail of fire, and burnt corpses, in his unknown mothers wake, stretching all the way down the Kingsroad, all beneath the banner of a flaming heart, enclosing a stag.

He jolted his head away, resisting his urge to look. The stone embedded into the red woman's necklace glowed a deep red, beneath her smug smile. The he looked at Stannis, who eyed his every move, wondering what he would do next. Then he knew what he would do.

'I am loyal to you, my King. As my father was…I will marry your daughter,' Jon insisted, under the impression he was making the right choice. 'Stark and Baratheon will unite once more, and I will join you in killing every Bolton, every Lannister, every Tyrell we can get our hands on.'

Stannis only smiled, but the priestess did not.


	7. The Giants of Last Hearth

**The Giants of Last Hearth**

For the first time, in years and years, a giant trekked across the lands of The North, leaving footprints in the sodden muck large enough for a normal man to lay in. A tremendous thud rocked the ground with every giant step, leaving Jon Stark wondering what other phenomenons had been uncovered since the dragons hatched across the narrow sea, and the White Walkers lurked in the _real_ north beyond the wall once more.

 _All my life I've wanted to see a dragon…and ride one, and fight atop one,_ he daydreamed, atop his plain horse, with fur instead of scales, no wings and lacking a fiery breath hot enough to melt stone. Atop a dragon, he could fly to Winterfell before nightfall, root out the traitors living within his halls, and char them to a crisp. But he had his Direwolf, and he'd settle for Ghost over any winged, fire breathing beast.

His plain horse sunk its hooves deep into the mush of snow and wet mud; a stain from the storms that had lashed across the land from the eastern seas. The sky was clear now, like crystal, with a radiant blue painted across the top of the world. But the cold still lingered, battling against the little warmth from the dim sunshine, hanging around like a disease.

Another storm was brewing, Jon sensed. The air reeked of it. A blizzard was readying itself for assault. They were of frequent occurrence since the winds of winter grew stronger in the north, creeping over and around The Wall, gushing south quicker than any dragon could. Jon had seen a few bad snowstorms as a child, but all in the comfort of his warm bed back at Winterfell. Thinking of home only made him sad.

Last Hearth peeped its head over the horizon; a fat, tall and solitary tower, atop a stunted hill, surrounded by grey, modest buildings, that acted as the main keep. As they neared, Jon could see the epic stretch of wall, longing in the distance, surrounding a whole town of working busy. _If this place ever fell to a siege, the small folk would fall first. Though, father once said, Umbers would fight for their small folk as if it were their own lives, and defend the entire town until their last breaths. Bold men._ Jon had a great deal of respect for the loyalty Umbers had shown his house over the years. The Greatjon himself had been the one to name Robb a King, even after losing two fingers to Grey Wind. Remembering the wolves when they were mere pups forced an oddly woeful smile to his lips.

He looked down at Ghost, padding alongside him and his horse, at the head of the party who'd set off to greet the Umbers. Ghost knew, and looked upon his face almost instantly. _Good boy,_ he thought to himself, but Jon knew Ghost could get into his head somehow; he always understood. The white direwolf's pale muzzle was stained red, a kill from this morning, elk or deer Jon guessed. No man alive could hunt as a wolf could, not even Robert Baratheon in his old days, when he had been tall and built like an ox and not a fat, tamed old drunkard.

Many of the men feared the great beast, but the Wildlings had grown used wolves that size. He didn't recall seeing any however, when he had been beyond The Wall. The Freefolk woman Tormand had acting as peace maker between Stannis and The Wildlings didn't flinch at Ghost even a little. She even dared stroke him one time, though Ghost didn't seem to mind. She rode up alongside the giant that accompanied them to Last Hearth, with a small party of twenty-odd Wildlings. Since the Umbers wore a giant on their sigil, Stannis thought to make a point to them by gracing them with an actual giant, and secretly thought to use the thing as muscle if the proceedings turned sour.

So far the ambassador of the Freefolk had said little to Jon, but she had an odd affection for Tormand, Jon deduced. Her face was pretty enough, only to be tainted by a scar across her brow; a minor wound if anything from the massacre at Hardhome. She was taller than most woman, rather ropey, and strong looking too, a true northern girl. Jon could see Tormand's interest in her, yet to him, she was no Ygritte. Her hair was a mousy brown, washed in with matted locks that lazily swayed with the wind, making her hair look knotted and unattended to. It added to the barbaric look the country likely expected of the Freefolk. It was no surprise they were feared by their more civilised, southern counterparts.

Before Jon could finish his thoughts, Stannis Baratheon hailed for him from the very front of the lines. Jon spurred his mare into a canter, and rode up to meet him, with Ghost shadowing him the whole way. Stannis had changed into clean and smarter boiled leathers, with a green and gold half cape, whipping wildly in the wind behind him. A bronze crown of antlers rested loosely on his head, topping off the look of a King. _He wants to make a bold statement to the northerners. The giant alone will do that much._

'Your grace,' Jon respectively hailed as he trotted through the nameless Kingsguards, up alongside his King.

Bluntly, without any small talk, Stannis jumped straight in. 'Why do you want to marry my daughter, Lord Stark?'

In truth, he didn't. After Ygritte's death at The Wall, Jon had no motives to move on with another, let alone marry, partly due to the black. His Nights Watch vowels had forbid it either way, but he hadn't thought much of it when he was pardoned of those vowels. Guilt alone would of suppressed any notions of marriage, for a time, out of respect to those he once called brothers; it would be no less than a betrayal to rub freedom in the faces of men sworn till the death. _It makes Mance seem all the more right. Perhaps there is no freedom in bending the knee, and swearing your life away, whatever the cause._

Besides all that, Shereen was just a girl, barely older than Arya, and _come of age_ was an overused term in Westeros. Had Joffrey truly come of age when he became known as 'The most powerful man in Westeros?' _He was just a vicious boy, and she is just a scarred girl. They have no place in these games._

'I confess I do not love the girl. Actually I barely know her.' Jon had never had the honour. No one had, not even her mother took a break from staring into flames, like a moth, to visit her. Only Ser Davos saw her, and he'd gained quite a bond with the girl.

Jon spoke on, with a lump in his throat. 'I've never thought about marriage, your grace. The men could only ever dream of anything like that, thanks to the Nights Watch vowels. But she is a sweet girl, and the Lannisters are trying to divide us. We must persist and merge truly as allies. And if a wedding can unite our houses as one, then so be it.' He masked the deeper truth with an obvious one. _And you would let the red woman burn her if she wasn't a necessity. If a wedding will save an innocent little girl, then so be it. Perhaps her life will repent my own misdeeds._

Stannis reacted bitterly with mistrust. 'Or you will take her hostage, at my expense, hand her to the Lannisters as a gift for your pardon and stab me in the back. We are at war. Discontent is a given. Bring me these Umber men. Then Lord Stark, I will trust your intentions.' Blunt and brief, Stannis cantered off to the gates, ushering signals for the Giants advance.

For the faintest of moments, when death seemed a certainty at Hardhome, Jon had seen an unguarded Stannis, a version of him that wore no stone masks. His shoulders were unburdened with duty and honour, for a time. Life was the only thing that made sense within all the madness and the slaughter. But the King had long lost that moment of freedom against his duty, and his mind was truly set on whatever he envisioned in the flames.

Jon had seen his own visions, ones of men burning down the Kingsroad, with flaming heart, engulfing a stag banners flying proudly above the black corpses—it was a road Jon found hard to follow. Mance Rayder was just the beginning, Jon had heard stories of Robert's eldest brother murdering his youngest, but many feared to say too much more than that. Others told horrifying tales of the kings own banner men, and brothers by law being burned in sacrifice to R'holler. _The prince that was promised has no burdens in building pyres. No, only burdens in seizing the Iron Throne, no matter the consequence. Not many men are so bold to do what they believe is necessary, so oft._ Jon pondered whether his black brothers thought something similar of him when he opened his gates to Tormand and his army. Quaking and thudding footsteps woke him from his ponders.

Armed with a white cloth, tied atop a totem taller than the towns walls, the Wildling giant approached Last Hearth, with its signal of peace. Slowly but surely, people flocked to the gates like vultures to a corpse. Archers assembled atop the battlements, with a few noblemen tailing behind them. Jon ordered the small party of under fifty to halt, with a single gesture. Stannis stopped too, clearly to show Jon's importance to the people he would supposedly rule.

Jon rode up to the gate alone. A lord looking man, dressed in cross chain armour, over dark boiled leather, wrapped warm in a wolfskin cloak, advanced to the top of the ramparts, whilst the rest gawked cautiously at the giant, muttering away like morning birds. Jon realised then how shabby he must of looked in his old Nights Watch leathers, black as pitch, crowned by a tattered crows cloak. He was grateful for the cloak against the chill in the air, however. The acting Lord had a crowd at his feet, archers and swords guarding every corner of the only entrance, and an impressive folded steel great-sword sheathed at his back—a big brother to the short-sword hanging from his waste. _He thinks it's a siege,_ Jon realised.

The world fell silent, bar the noisy crows heckling in the distance. Jon waited for an addressing, but loyal to their renowned stubbornness, the Umber man said nought.

He croaked the boy from his voice, speaking loud and deep. 'I am Lord Jon Stark, by the decree of Stannis Baratheon, the one true king of Westeros, I have been named Warden in The North, and therefore the liege lord of this house.' Jon said it like a prayer; a prayer only those atop those battlements could answer. The nobleman didn't even give him a look, his eyes glued to the giant, whose kind fronted the banners draped down the face of gate.

A potent northern voice, that rivalled the Wildlings own tongue, bellowed from above. 'There is no Jon Stark. And last I heard, the Lannister runt was King.' He finally looked down at Jon, with bored black eyes, a rough brown beard and dark whisps of long brunette hair. Jon did not know his name by face, to his mistake, but the man donned the look of an Umber.

'We were invited…' the man's expression didn't change. 'By Mors Crowfood,' Jon said it more like a question.

'Mors Crowfood is a prick. Why have you and your King come here, Jon Stark, or whoever the fuck you are.' The nobleman was disgruntled, a true Umber by reputation at least.

Jon Snow whistled. Ghost prodded along, making his presence known. Everyone in the North knew of the Stark dire wolves, they were as real as the Targaryan Dragons that roamed the skies in the east. Jon thought Ghost would be evidence enough.

'I am the son of Eddard Stark. His last son,' he lied, but Bran and Rickon were part of a bigger picture. 'I was Lord Commander of The Nights Watch, at Castle Black. I came south to root the Boltons out of my family home and avenge your liege Lord and King in the North.' That only yeilded a sly scoff of the throat from Stannis behind him. The King didn't hide his disapproval of Robb's crowning; he considered it thievery, and named Jon's brother a usurper, a word that stung him nearly as hard as _bastard_ had.

'And why would the Lord Commander of the Nights Watch be in the company of those goat fuckers,' the Umber men interrogated, pointing a gloved finger to Karsi and her giant. 'Mors thinks you're here to liberate the North but as far as I'm aware, The Watch is for life, isn't it? Are you a crow turned traitor?' The still unknown nobleman looked down from the walls, distrustfully at The Wildlings, distrustfully at Stannis and no differently to himself.

Jon had kept The Wildlings presence below The Wall a buried secret from the North. The Bolton's could turn the North against him for plaguing the lands with brigands and bandits; at least that's how they'd sell the song. Jon wanted to sell a different song. The Wildlings would pillage and plunder and rape and murder to their hearts content, as long as they did it for his side, he had no mind to stop them. And despite all that, Jon would of loved nothing more than seeing Roose Bolton's face upon hearing he had Giant fighting for him. _Ah, that would be a sweeter sight than most. His breeches would be brown quicker than he could read the word Giant._ But that was another matter.

'I have aligned the Nights Watch and The Freefolk to fight for a common cause…our very lives. I do not know you, but I assume you have never gone beyond The Wall.' Jon had tried to dress up the ugly wench that was his story at least, but the words sat sour in his mouth. The Watch and Freefolk hadn't really allied per say, but they were no longer fighting each other, and to him, that was something great. He thought it best not to mention the high tensions between him and his Nights Watch.

'If your Wildlings come peacefully then why have we had nothing but reports from the east telling tales of burned villages and slaughtered towns? My father is in a pit at The Twins, and between us and him, the Bolton's strut around like traitorous cunts, ruling the north, my country, as if they own the place. As far as they're concerned, they do own the place, but I'll never fight for that backstabbing cunt.' _They hate the Boltons as much as we do. If I can only get his trust. But there's more of a fight looming than the Boltons. '_ We had spurred to go south and free him, yet Roose Bolton and his sadistic bastard sit in our stead and Wildlings bang at our doors from The Wall. As I see it, you are responsible for the shit we find ourselves in.' Finally Jon realised he was speaking to Smalljon Umber, heir to Last Hearth, and clearly acting Lord whilst his father rotted in chains. The hostile demeanour and hint of exaggerated self worth should of suggested as much, Jon mused.

Bold, and uncaring of who heard his plans, Jon rung the truth, like a bell. 'The Freefolk have been sent to take Karhold. The Karstark's loyalty to the Stark's has faded into Roose Bolton's hands. They are our enemies and The Wildlings have been sent to kill them. I took great care in directing them away from Umber lands, so they shan't be a problem to you…if you join me,' Jon threatened. _Not a way to earn a man's trust, though a Stark should simply have it in The North. A courtesy spared for a bastard it seems._

'You dash threats at a man in his own keep, you best back them if the swords are drawn. When the Wildlings strike, they hit us first. Nay, does it bother me, I've been killing Wildlings all my life. But from what I hear, thousands have leaked through The Wall, at your doing. I should be at the doors of Winterfell with your head demanding they march with us against the ' Smalljon yelled from atop the battlements. Convincing him proved to be no easy task.

The Giant slammed down the totem, planting it like a tree. With two heavy clouts, the totem was set in the ground, white flag fluttering with the breeze. The men on the battlements nearly shit themselves. The Wildling women approached, passing Jon towards the gate. 'My name is Karsi, and I speak for the Freefolk.'

Ever impatient, Smalljon urged her on. 'Then speak woman, what is there south of The Wall that could possibly interest your horde of barbarians?'

Karsi's mouth twisted, but she swallowed her anger at his jape. 'Life, southern Lord. The night is coming, and it will come here first. We aren't here to conquer. We're here to hide our weak behind The Wall, and throw out our strong against the army of the dead. Jon Stark and his kneeler King saved us at Hardhome. Not all of us…but those left owe them their lives. That is why we are here, southern Lord.'

Smalljon eyed Jon, curiously. 'Tis that true, Stark?'

'Aye, it is. They are no less real than you or me. And when they come, death comes with them until they meet an army that can stop them.' Jon was pleading now. The Smalljon's eyes lingered on the very much real giant. 'Trust me, you need us just as we need you. Accept me as your liege, Lord Umber, and I promise to rid the north of the Bolton's, to free your father from the Riverlands and to lead us into the long night against The Others.'

The Umber man wore a flabbergasted look if anything else. His expression melted into hard stone soon after, deep in thought. He clicked his fingers, urging council from his men. Smalljon's posey gathered to him and conferred. After one man huffed off in disagreement, Smalljon spoke in his most respectful Lord's voice, masking his attitude as if it were hidden behind glass. 'Lord Stark. It seems as if I owe you an apology. My castellans have reminded me of my err…courtesies and I would invite you and your companions into our halls for some bread and salt.' Jon was mistrustful, and no one moved when the gate screeched open.

He looked back, to meet Stannis's curious smile. They exchanged discrete nods, but we're still slow to proceed.

The Smalljon guffawed. 'Do I look like a fucking Frey? Come inside before you freeze your balls off.'

Jon did as he was bid, and reluctantly lead his party into Last Hearth. The city watched as they flowed through the gate, fitting three abreast at a time, between the grey stone walls. Hundreds of eyes followed, shining with then same mistrust as Jon. War had done this to them, to everyone, leaving a lingering doubt in the back of everyone from every where's mind. The Giant drew the most looks, but no one dared stare too long out of fear.

Last Hearth was a true northern town behind the walls; hard stone houses with white smoke wafting up into the field of blue above from the chimneys, markets buzzing with trade, selling green sour apples, potatoes in the thousands, bakers hailed their breads to the minor flocks of peasants with spare coin. Winter Town sat a short ride outside of Winterfell, but all the Umbers small folk resided inside of the castle grounds. The keep itself was situated atop a sloped hill towards the rear of the town, guarded with walls of its own. Jon hadn't realised so many occupied Last Hearth. They almost looked untouched by war of any form. _They have held back their strength to defend their own, and sit stronger than any other northern house, no doubt. If they are as loyal to the Stark's as they claim to be, they'll make firm allies for sure._ Before he could indulge in being Lord of Stark, a voice lingered deep in his head. _But you're not a Stark, you're just a bastard playing at one._ Jon marshalled on despite his doubts.

The ride was hard up the hill, steep as it was. Jon spotted murder holes dotted all along the lanky walls around the main keep, for archers to ambush any foe who'd be fool enough to march up. _If the town fell, this place would stand otherwise._ He wondered if this impressively defended keep would host the great battle in the snow the priestess nattered on about. Most of the men remained at the gates, but Jon doubted their lives were at risk; the giant was enough to deter any means of a fight from breaking out.

Two gates of thick, cold rolled steel—thicker than Castle Black's own—would have to be breached if any incoming army were to take the castle, and it appeared to be the only way in or out. The gates creaked heavily, as men grunted with effort, as they opened the crank. _Even with a giant and an army, those gates would be a hard budge. And you'd fair no better scaling those walls. It would only earn a long fall to the death._

Inside the main gates, the Umber representatives unhorsed themselves and escorted them through into the Last Hearth till Castle Black. Barely ten men Jon knew acted as his company; respectively Stannis and Ser Davos, four southern lords Jon didn't recall, Karsi and a guard of The Freefolk, and a lieutenant of The Golden Company and three of his escorts. Lady Mellisandre had opted to stay in camp to stare into the flames and head R'holler's will, whilst Sam had urged to stay with his Gillyflower and her bastard babe. Their words had been brief, to Jon's regret, since their last encounter, where Jon had acted the hot headed fool. His council here would have been welcomed by Jon, but his brother seldom left Gilly's side since they departed The Wall.

With his small band on strangers, Jon was accepted into the main hall, but not with the same reception they'd received stood in the shit outside the gates. The Smalljon prompted not to dip his toe in the water, yet to dive in head first. 'Fuck all this Lord bullshit. I want to know why you let thousands of Wildlings through Castle Black, and cut us the lies, Stark. Everyone knows they'll fight no wars for kneelers.' The acting Lord Umber stood forth, towering Jon by a head and a half at least, his dark eyes burning right through him.

'I told you the truth of it at the gate, my Lord. King Stannis has offered the Freefolk whatever lands they can win from the Bolton's, by right of conquest, they make no claims to anything else. I swear it. All the Freefolk want, all they have ever wanted was to hide behind our wall, and when winter finally comes, they will fight by our side against what comes with it.' Jon had raised his voice louder than he knew. Smalljon gave him a curious stare, his mouth twitching as so. He had his doubts, Jon sensed.

He came closer, his mouth only daring to whisper the words. 'The White Walkers? No, they've be dead for thousands of years. The Wall has driven the watch mad. You're all fucking losing it.' Despite him being sceptical, the Smalljon sounded almost as if he were only lying to himself, more than anyone else.

Stannis chimed in, gravel toned. 'Once, when I was a boy, I stopped believing in all that malarkey about Others, dragons, gods. From a young age I grew into this stone faced man who cared only for duty, because that is what is right.' Stannis wore the strangest smirk on his face, one he had never seen. It was a reflection of Mellisandre's own smug face. 'Then I looked into the flames and saw a great battle in the snow, a true clash of blood and ice. But we fought no men in that vision. Only the dead. And now they come for all of us. Just as they did at Hardhome.' _Our King, grim as he is, didn't strike me as a preacher,_ Jon pondered.

Stannis stared into the hearth, it's flickering flames lapping up timber, with a fiery lick. The torches scattered around the great hall dimmed eerily, just has they did when The Red Woman would leave a room. But this was different. It was as if they were fuelled by fireflies, that all flocked from the torches to the hearth, as it grew brighter than any star, igniting its glow onto the Kings smirking face. Jon felt an uneasy pit grow in his belly.

With sour eyes, Smalljon watched, before he finally questioned Stannis's story. 'What happened up there, with the Wildlings? We heard it was a massacre, for both the Nights Watch and the Wildlings?'

'It was,' Stannis replied, his smile never fading. 'When the dead came knocking, we fought, we lost, we ran.' He stopped smiling, finally, like the northern winds had rushed in and stripped it from him. He walk towards Lord Umber with his usual stone like expression. 'I've spent every night since trying to tell myself that what I saw, what I've seen, is all a lie. But all the gods curse if I lie to you now. The Others are more real than you or I. Just like the dragons, just like the gods.' Stannis lifted his head, revealing icy marks, that looked like blue fingers tattooed across his neck from where he'd been in the clutches of an Other. No one said a word. The Smalljon looked at his people for reassurance but found none.

'You're marked. They know which shithole castle you hide in,' Lord Umber finally said.

'I am,' Stannis bluntly replied. 'And if we do not take the north before the long night is upon us, they'll kill everyone, everywhere. I'm not King if all my subjects are dead, am I?'

'Lord Stark…a bastard you may be, but Ned Stark prided himself with his honour. His honour was law in these parts, once. I'll help you win the north, as a small gesture of our loyalty.' The Smalljon was convinced.

'Then kneel, before Gods and men, kneel and swear fealty to your Warden of the North,' Stannis added.

'Nah, fuck kneeling. I don't know you, but my father was the first to support your brother, Stark. The Umbers will only ever fight for the Starks. Doesn't mean I'm going to kiss your arse.'

'Then how can we trust your intentions? How do we know you'll be loyal to us and won't send our corpses to Roose Bolton, like a gift wrapped with a bow?' Stannis's distrust was misplaced, Jon knew.

'Did the Wildlings kneel to you? Do you trust them?' It was a question for Jon, he deduced.

'Yes, oddly. Some are the savages you think them to be, but they are loyal to those who saved them. It took them a lot to trust a crow. I don't care if you kneel. Prove your loyalty by marching, with us, to Winterfell.'

The Smalljon drew his sword and swore to him in his own way. He flung the steel at Jon's feet. 'My sword is yours then, Stark. And to sweeten a deal well struck, I have a gift for you.' The Smalljon clicked his fingers and two of his men escorted in a pair of prisoners. When he pulled the sacks from their heads, it was no clearer who they were. Though the woman was shocking, with matted blonde hair, a broad face, flat nose and broken teeth. Her armour, despite its filthy coating, gleamed slightly against the fire, a mirage of blue and red swirling together. And the other looked to be a young boy, with a nervous face. Upon seeing Stannis, the woman jolted forward, screaming. The King did not flinch. It took four men to hold her down.

'I'll kill you!' She screamed. 'I'll kill you, murderer!' She sang it like a prayer.

Jon heard 'Tarth' murmured behind him. He shrugged at Lord Umber, with not clue in his head as to who they were.

'She had this on her when we found her.' He unsheathed a formidable sword, of Valyrian steel, that looked fresh forged, with a golden lion head acting as a pommel. Jon's burned hand clinched tight around his own wolf head pommel, his leather glove crunching around his hand. _She's a Lannister. With expensive armour and a golden sword. '_ I'm no smith, but this lovely blade, oddly resembles that of your fathers,' Lord Umber lazily announced as he tilted the blade, letting the fires dance in the majestic ripples of the steel. _Ice!_ Jon puzzled. 'More interestingly, her captive was someone of great value to you. Bring her in,' he clicked his fingers once more. 'I hope you like red heads,' he japed at King Stannis.

As the hooded woman was escorted in, Jon felt his heart start to jump. _It can't be her…no, Jon, she's dead and gone._ His chest hurt even thinking of her. The voices began to swirl in his head, _she doesn't have to be, if you will it so._ It was the Red Woman, whispering poison in his ears. _Burn them all, Lord Stark_ he heard Stannis command. _You know nothing, Jon Snow,_ he heard her say. But he was spared a second heartbreak when the girl pulled down her hood and unveiled her long locks of red and brown hair. She donned her hair almost, though her face was not Ygritte's, but another face Jon had buried deep in the past.

He did not know whether he had said it aloud, but her name echoed wherever he could hear. _Sansa!_


	8. A Bastard in The Belly

**A Bastard in The Belly**

Dressed all in black, head to toe, a spitting image of her Lord father, Jon _Stark_ stood before her, his eyes flushed with the slightest glint of a tear. Sansa felt her own eyes well over, yet she was unsure why. It was all too real, but that wasn't the issue. She worried that one of the cruel gods would swipe down a hand from the heavens and steal the only kin she knew she had left, before she could muster a single heartbeat to save him. But Jon was real, and stood before her, gawking at her like an idiot.

She couldn't find any words; they were trapped beneath the lump in her throat. Before anyone could talk, the pair desperately spurred to one another, embracing in the only display of brotherly and sisterly love Sansa could recall. She pounced into his arms as she'd seen Arya do a thousand times over, yet wrapped up in his arms, she felt her safest since they all left Winterfell together, so long ago. _You stupid girl. You couldn't help but be horrible to him, and now he's all you have left._ She didn't want to let go, it made her heart ache to think this could all be a dream, an illusion, or anything that would strip this of her. It was hard to shake the feeling Joff and the queen would burst in with their golden lions and tear her away, back into the snakes pit of Kings Landing. _No, Sansa,_ she argued silently. _Joff is dead…Littlefinger saw to that much. It's the bastard you should fear. Ramsey was worse than Joff could have ever been,_ she thought as her half-bastard brother clung to her tightly.

When Jon finally put her down, Sansa had to look into his deep, dark, Stark eyes, wanting to pinch herself. _If this is truly a dream, then curse the man who wakes me._ His hair was longer than she remembered, and he wore it tied back the same way father had. No wonder her mother had no affection for him, a constant, living and breathing reminder that Ned Stark, despite all his honour, lay with another. And he looked more a Stark than any of then. Robb had been blessed with the Tully's fair looks and auburn hair, same as her, where as Arya and Bran had more of The North in them, though not as much Jon. But it had been years since she'd laid eyes on any of them. Their faces were a fogged memory to her now.

'I can't believe you're alive. As much as I knew, you were in Kings Landing,' Jon finally said.

'I escaped whilst Joffrey choked on his pigeon pie,' she replied, a small part of her wishing she'd stayed to see it for herself, to make sure he was really dead. 'Soon after I was in Winterfell…' She couldn't bring herself to say it and reveal all the horrendous things she'd seen Ramsey do, all the horrendous things Ramsey had done to her, not with all these people listening at least. The room was full of strangers.

A grey, stone cold, gargoyle of a man donning a chauvinistic crown of golden antlers stood beside a woman clad in red, from her shining red hair, down to her crimson velvet shoes. A savage looking woman, with a freshly scarred brow was with them too, dressed in tattered furs. And a frail old knight, with an onion lashed across his breastplate, joined Jon as well. She guessed the crowned man was Stannis Baratheon, the man who Cercei promised would rape half the ladies in the city, when he had tried to sack Kings Landing, with no success. She could not open up to all these unknown faces, but Jon saved her from that.

'We will trade our tales another time, sweet sister,' he said with a gentle smile.

She only nodded and lapped up all the beauty she had failed to see before in her brothers face, with a sweet smile and moist eyes. With a click of the fingers, Lord Umber summoned in his hostages, one of which screamed and raged at her capture. When they were seized by the Umber men on The Kingsroad, Sansa had assured Brienne she could trust them. She explained how the Umbers were the loyalist of houses to the Starks. But Brienne of Tarth tried to fight, as she had seemingly always done, which only riled suspicion from the Giants of Last Hearth. Sansa was treated softly by the men, but Brienne and Pod were far from spared of that expense. They were dragged into the room bloodied and on their knees.

'What do you want done with these two, Lord Stark?' Smalljon Umber asked Jon, gesturing to Brienne of Tarth and The Imp's old plump squire.

'Who are they?' Jon intrigued, barely sounding interested.

'Fuck knows. The big bitch had Lannister looking steel, fancy armour and the gold hair echoes as much. We think she was heading south, most likely Kings Landing,' Smalljon exclaimed. He had dismissed all of Brienne's truths for lies. She had tried to beg for her release, but stubborn by name, Lord Umber had none of it.

Her plead popped out of her mouth, like juice from a bursting grape. 'Please Jon, they are no Lannisters. They are my saviours. They helped me escape Winterfell with Theon,' but she'd said too much.

'Theon?' Jon queried, with a stern frown borrowed from Lord Eddard himself.

'Yes.' She eyed the room, pondering whom within was trustworthy. She leaned into her brothers ear and whispered, 'Bran and Rickon are alive. He did not burn them as everyone thinks.' The whole world thinking her younger brothers were dead and gone made that world a safer place for them. Theon had done them a kindness of sorts.

'I know,' he replied casually. 'Rickon is on his way here as we speak. It's okay, Sansa. No one will hurt them, not now. If we can still walk through the gates of Winterfell, a family, them the Boltons will never hold The North. And you say these two are friends? What of her Lannister steel?'

Brienne had been more than truthful regarding the circumstances in acquiring that sword. It was her fathers, _Ice_ —well half of it. The Kingslayer had given it to her after Lord Tywin had the steel reworked. Oathkeeper, she named it, in tribute to Ser Jaime promising her mother to protect herself and Arya. Despite her fondness for the one-handed knight, Brienne was to be trusted. _She saved my life, I must vouch for her. But I cannot bare the truth to all these ears. Jon must know everything first. And she'll plunge that sword through Stannis first chance she gets. I hope she understands this is for her own good._

'Lock her away, for now. We should question her later. And the boy.' Before anyone could protest, she jumped straight back in with Jon, a quick distraction above all else. 'I haven't seen you in so long. I'm sure Lord Umber will host a banquet to our reunion, we can talk a plenty then. I'm sure I do not have as many adventure stories as you.' Jon moved his eyes away from hers as the Umber men seized Brienne and Pod, only to rile screams of protest from the blue Lady of Tarth. Pod said nothing, however.

'Lady Sansa! Please, you cannot trust Stannis!' She shushed when the guard knocked her down with a sly elbow in her jaw. She looked up at her, blood and spittle draining from her cracked lip, on her knees like a beggar. _Please, Brienne. Just give me some time._ They dragged her out across the floor, urging her to scream once more. 'My Lady! Please! He's a _murderer!'_ She screamed until her voice faded from the halls, a whispering echo of pleads, and an aggressive exchange of grunts as she tried to fight off her captures. Brienne's groans rung louder and more oft, so Sansa guessed she got the worse of it.

Stannis had Jon's burning glare. But Joff's usurping uncle didn't care, and hid it poorly behind his renowned stone cold face. The man didn't seem the monster the Lannisters sold him as, perhaps just a gargoyle, like the ones that used to sit cold, at Winterfell. If anything, he just looked plain bored, but he made no protest to Brienne's claims. _He's just another man, like the rest. If he had taken Kings Landing that night, I doubt he'd be no less interested in raping the women than he seems at this very meet. He's no monster, I know the real monsters. Not Stannis, not The Hound, definitely not Robb, The Northern King who fed on the flesh of the fallen. They are the real monsters, the ones with all their lies and their tricks._ Littlefinger's voice echoed, _and they're all better liars than you._ She wondered if that were still true; she had told many lies in her company with Littlefinger, and everyone who had listened lapped them up like a hot thirsty hound, panting its tongue into a puddle of rainwater.

After the screams faded, the room returned to life.

'You want a feast then, Stark? We'll host in your honour, I guess,' Lord Smalljon announced, though he sounded less enthusiastic than she hoped.

Jon came back to the room as well. 'I would gladly dine on our alliance, Lord Umber,' Jon donned a fake smile, she knew. Sansa saw straight through it. He had a great weight baring on his shoulders, it was clear as day to her. 'But I hoped we'd speak of other matters first. A feast is all well and good, but we have a war to plan. Sansa, perhaps you'd do well to rest. The journey home is to be a long one yet. I hope I don't speak just for myself when I say I could use a rest from the war.' Jon smiled prettily, more than Sansa could have known of him. _He is soft on the eyes, yet he has the hard Northmen buried behind his own eyes._

She was sad that she'd been so cruel to him when they were younger. All she wanted to do was hold him, tell him how sorry she was and how stupid she had been. In all her thoughts, she realised the room was waiting on her for a response. In typical fashion, she played the charade her Septa had taught her; the dim witted, eager lady everyone expected of her.

'That would be most pleasing, brother. I'm sure the Umbers will make fine hosts. I must prepare a gown for the evening.' In that moment, her own voice felt as if it were coming from the lips of Margery Tyrell. _Now there is a woman who can play these game._ Sansa mirrored the smile the rose queen often donned in the company of anyone important, below her big brown doe eyes she wore with the smile. Sansa had seen too much horror to pretend such innocence. She imagined her eyes were as hard as the false knight Ser Illyn Payne's.

She bowed courtly, placed a loving kiss on Jon's cheek and made haste to her guests solar. The main hall began council as Jon explained his intentions to his newly found bannermen, upon her departure. When she arrived at her room, she couldn't help but feel the smile on her lips, thinking of all the ways Jon could kill her husband. _Not Tyrion though. Who would have guessed The Imp was the only one worthy of my hand? Curse Joff, curse Ramsey. I'd take Tyrion to bed before either of those real monsters._ She rued her own past as she bathed in her warm, scented waters. She had dismissed the closest thing to a handmaiden the North could muster and opted on washing herself. She would not have another soul lay eyes on the marks Ramsey had left on her. Or the swell in her belly. The thing that lived inside her made Sansa feel queasy. Gently, she smoothed a hand over the modest bump and began to hum a lullaby her mother used to sing to her. _If I am truly with child, his child, then cut it out of me._ But Cercei whispered behind her anger at Ramsey, _you shall love no one more than your children._ She carried on singing, despite her qualms.

Once she was cleaned and dressed, in garbs of Winterfell grey, her hair brushed until it shone its fiery Tully auburn, she pondered a visit to her new King. If anyone was to blame for her…experience back home at Winterfell, it was Littlefinger to be sure. He'd said himself he'd do anything to get what he wanted, and clearly, selling Sansa like livestock to the Boltons played a part in that. _He must of known. Of course he did, he knows everything else. He prides himself on all he knows. Yet he took me there anyway. If I can lure him here, to help us take The North, I can slit his throat when the war is over. It's the least the little snake deserves._ If anyone could arrange such a demand, the brother murdering King Stannis could assist her better than anyone else. But before any of that, Riverrun was her pick of the bunch. The Freys infested her mothers home and not a sword down south would save it. _But Stannis might, if I ask._

She set off, unsure where her path would take her. The main hall seemed the most likely, but she had no mind to speak under the prying ears of strangers whom she did not trust. Her wanderings brought her upon a guard who told her where Stannis was making his solar. His council led her out across a courtyard blooming with hedge knights and guardsmen swinging blunted swords at straw men, whilst autumn snows sat soft and deep on the ground. Their looks lingered as she walked by. Looking up, Sansa noted how fat Last Hearth's main keep's tower was as she entered. She eyed the stag within a fiery heart on the armour of two bored guards, stationed at the base of a stairwell. They let her through with not a word.

She climbed up the stairs, as if it would answer her prayers. Sansa strutted her ladies walk, scripted and taught to her from an early age. If she could only convince her new King to march to Riverrun. _The closer I get Ramsey to the river, the easier it will be for me to drown him._ With a creak from the hinge, a howl of wind fled the room, as she wearily opened the heavy oaken door. Two pairs of eyes received her as she entered; those of Stannis himself and the glaring rubies of The Red Woman. Composed and confident, a hint of a creeping smile lingering on his stone lips, the cold Lord of The Seven Kingdoms stood with a puffed out chest, donning the bravado of a man who'd never lost a war. _Only the most important battle of your life. One especially important to me. How much of my family could have lived if you'd won Kings Landing that night._

'Your grace,' she exclaimed, dipping her aching body into a lazy curtsy. She felt her bumped squirm and kick within her, until she wanted to wretch. But she forced it back, giving it as little thought as she could.

Her armour was here courtesies, and honour was a woman's best weapon. Her mother thought that at least. _Cercei was wrong. If she'd thought to use that bastard bearing hole between her legs against a man like Stannis, she'd be dead, and not mother. Mother's honour was wasted on Walder Frey. But Stannis is different to the other snakes for men._

Stannis seemed to hold Tully words above his own. His fury wasn't much to be feared so far, but duty and honour seemed a second nature to him. _A shame family falls behind the pair. Duty and honour is worthless without family. Even the Lannisters know that much,_ Sansa rued quietly.

'Do you realise your brother is the most powerful man in The North?' He asked bluntly, ignoring her greeting entirely, intently staring into the flames, like an enlightened moth.

 _This is war, Sansa. These follies are all just a show. The shows ends where war begins,_ she had to remind herself.

'It would seem so. Second to you, of course,' but it was a lie really. The North cared not for Stannis. The sooner he returned south, the more The North would embrace Jon. No Stark fought any true Baratheons, so no hatred was aimed to the stags. The flayed man, the golden lion, the golden kraken too for that matter—they were The North's enemies. But Stannis earned no love from the northerners either, and up here, that was as good as hatred.

'The Northmen want me out of their country, they see me as no ruler to them. All I bring for them is more war. But they'll live under Jon Stark's peace. I've demanded nothing of the North that your brother doesn't agree with. They must know that.'

'Half-brother,' she blurted out, spurring only guilt after doing so. She wasn't sure if word of Bran and Rickon's death being a lie had spread to the King's ears yet, and she was less sure that he was trustworthy. If the tales were true, chances were, he'd have the boys put to the pitch without even flinching. That much she could not risk.

'Does _bastard_ not chime to your lips, Lady Stark? Because under it all, the orders, the pieces of parchment claiming everything but, your brother is still a bastard to you, isn't he?' The Red Woman glared her fiery stare, two burning holes seeping with magics and mystery. She approached her, resting an oddly warm hand against Sansa's cheek. She dared not blink, only staring straight back, trying to unravel the priestess's own secrets. 'You have so much of your mother within you. A shame for your _half-brother._ Deep down it wounds you, to see him, a bastard born, bare the sigil of your ancient house, when he only shares half your blood. Does it not?'

Sansa gritted her teeth, swallowed the lump in her throat, and spoke on at Stannis, pulling her face from The Red Woman's delicate touch. 'You yourself named him Warden of The North and Lord of Winterfell. You are King and your word is law.' She struck a firm look back to the witch draped in crimson, missing only a golden crown of hair paired with a lion the same colour. _Perhaps she is my enemy too. With a touch of gold, she'd fit right in with the lions. Despite the hair, she even looks like Cercei, in a certain light,_ Sansa contested quietly.

'Half my blood he may be, but as far as I see it, a brother is still a brother, and him being a bastard would make him no less guilty of murder than yourself. Yet, even a bastard, Jon would never slay his own brothers. Especially not with foreign sorcery.' Sansa's tongue was venom at this point. But the King only smiled, coldly.

'Lady Brienne has told you much it seems.' Stannis took a deep breath and let the wind take his woes. 'It is true, I did murder Renly, my own brother, using blood magic. I did love him once, when he was a boy. But man-grown, he became a thief. No matter who you are, treason is treason, and death is the punishment. And as far as I know, I took your brother Robb too, by the same means.' His words took her breath slightly. He looked at her, sharper than Valyrian steel. 'I tossed a kings-blood thirsty leech into the flames announcing your brother a usurper. I did the same of Joffrey. Where are they now? Dead. And for all I know, I put them into the ground myself. There is power in king's blood. I've seen it for myself.'

 _The man's a fanatic, tainted by the whispers of a witch with perked breasts and a demon baring cunt. If the tales are true._ She had a mind to set him straight, announce Littlefinger as the traitor he is and spit on the name Frey whilst cursing his treachery. But she knew nothing would sway the King's mind. He had seen far worse things than she, Sansa guessed. _Or perhaps he is simply lust-filled and mad._

'I was wrong though,' Stannis continued, taking a seat behind his battle plan covered desk. He slouched the same slouch Joff did, when the worm-lipped little wretch sat the Iron Throne. 'I should have packed with your brother and given him The North as his people wanted. I see that now. With Jon as Lord Commander of The Watch, Robb as Warden of The North, perhaps even King, and me upon the chair my blood right owes me, Westeros may have a chance to face the dead.'

The Red Woman circled the room, to finally go and embrace her King. She pushed her hands through his greying hair and whispered into his ear, all the while staring Sansa in the eyes. Stannis shunted her away, displeased. 'Damned woman!' He spat. 'Leave us. Your words are boring to me.' The priestess stepped back, abashed, and walked away with a sly sway before stopping in the doorway.

'Lady Stark. Think on your sins. Or the Bolton creature inside you will bloom into the darkness,' she left with her regular smug smile.

Sansa silently cursed _Witch!_

'She has promised me much serving her R'holler. I have done things I wish I hadn't. But in the flames I did see things for myself. Whether she lied about that sword, your brother, everything else, I still saw a battle in the flames. I experienced only a taste with your bastard born brother. We were fighting for Westeros…but not against the Lannisters, nor the Boltons. The dead truly come walking and I plan to let them,' Stannis claimed, with a chilling glint in his eye. It scared her somewhat.

 _At least he has a plan. Perhaps it's insane. Perhaps he'll take back Winterfell and Riverrun._

'What do you mean, your grace?' She asked innocently, pretending she hadn't the faintest idea.

'When the dead come south, I aim to be hauled up behind The Bloody Gate. Numbers aren't my strong suit but the Tyrells give the Lannisters an overwhelming amount of men, more than I can defeat. If we can get every last man, woman and child who will serve me into The Eerie, it would take a very, very large army to conquer us.' His smile was intoxicatingly mad.

She struggled to get her words passed her breath. What he was suggesting was pure evil...but the look on Cercei Lannister's face when an Other came to cut her down would be worth more than all the gold at Casterly Rock. As wrong as it felt, she thought she agreed with this deranged madman.

'You can't mean to…' She couldn't even say it. _He would let the world burn just so he could rule the ashes. Just like Littlefinger. So many more will die when the long night comes._

'The South has too long believed the magics of the North are follies. When the Walkers march, all who face them will know how real they are. I cannot defeat the Lannisters, but The Others might. And they'll march farther south than us.' A gargoyle no more, the monster in Stannis finally revealed itself, with a more wicked smirk than she'd ever seen. _Ramsey, Cercei, Walder Frey, Littlefinger…they have no clue as to what is coming for them._

 _ *****_ _ **Authors note: Apologies for the delay, been very busy as of late and had some trouble uploading. Trying to get as many words in a day as I can. Also, change of pace to the story as I'm planning to bring in a few more characters as PoV chapters so hope you guys enjoy. Reviews are very much appreciated and will spur me to write more so please do! Thanks for reading!**_ _ *****_


	9. The Evenstar's Daughter

**The Evenstar's Daughter**

Years and years had passed now since it happened, but the face clung to her thoughts through it all, following her wherever she was bound, like a _shadow. A shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon._ Brienne had to remind herself she wasn't truly mad as everyone believed. But the memory was so vivid, and felt realer than the pit she found herself in. There he was, her beloved Renly, standing formidably in all his beautiful glory…only to be felled by some wicked foreign magic. Even now, her head was filled with shadows spilling the blood of better men. _He was so perfect…and kind. Imagine the world with him it's King…_ she pondered her murdered beloved until tears flooded her eyes.

Then she grew angry once more. _I will kill him for this, I swear it, by the old gods and the new. I'll swear to his God too if need be._ Her life was a small price to pay to see Stannis into the ground for his crimes. But she wasn't sentencing a soul whilst cooped up in the dingy dungeon of Last Hearth. At the least, she thought Sansa Stark would press her release but the girl wasn't stupid, Brienne knew. Of course, with the slightest second of a chance to put a blade through Stannis, she would have, and the Stark girl knew that all too much. The pretty little idiot likely thought she was doing her a favour, sparing her life, but she knew nothing of Brienne's qualms when it came to her vengeance.

 _She is her mothers daughter it seems. Though Lady Catelyn swore she would never stop me if I had a chance to avenge my King._ Then she realised Sansa had said no such thing and spat at her own oaths. Upon saving the Stark girl, she accepted that perhaps she truly did serve the Starks, and more bizarrely, at the orders of a Lannister. Ser Jaime's memory brought a smile to her lips, before a wretch in her belly ruined it.

So far, the great Umber's of Last Hearth served a watery, milk coloured, broth, cold as The Wall, an hour shy of curdling, for breakfast. It was slop, in every way but name. In the evenings, black bread, fresh with maggots, with dry potatoes and a slab of tough meat, tasteless on the tongue. _Just when I thought The North couldn't be blander,_ she mocked to herself. Her belly jumped from throbbing with pains of starvation, to a rank, dire feeling that her meals were begging to come back up.

After weeks of near darkness, pig shit for food, and not so much as a word from anyone, Sansa Stark finally decided to grace her with an audience. She came donning wolfskin furs around her pale, swan like neck, that crowned a deep navy dress. Her long auburn hair danced in shining ringlets down past her shaped, womanly torso.

'Lady Brienne, I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner. His grace would not allow it,' she dared say, after days and days of nothing.

'You call him grace? That man is no King. You're a fool to plea with him,' she spat, livid at the girls reluctance to visit, and plain lack of gratitude.

'Without Stannis, The North wouldn't think Jon strong enough to join him. Their support only exists because of him. We need him if we are ever to go home.' The girl rolled her eyes as she seated herself upon a stump wooden stool. 'And, he is Jon's King, I am Jon's sister, things are expected of me. I haven't been gifted the art of the sword, I am a lady. My role in it all asks me simply to flutter my eyelids, look pretty and make the men feel better.' She reached under her dress and pulled out a wine skin. She handed it to Brienne after sipping at it.

Brienne sucked at the end, expecting to lace her dry throat in sweet summer wine. To her misfortune, it was a dark, bitter mead, that roused her stomach some what more. Before she barfed at the feet of her lady, she tossed over the bitter to Podrick, who drank it dry.

'Water would have sufficed, my lady,' she said. 'And as for the men…curse them all. I would put them all to the sword, like I were carving soft cheese,' she proudly exclaimed.

All her life she'd been putting men who thought a cock made them better than her into the dirt. The fabled Kingslayer she'd fought on the bridge proved to be no better than a stable boy. The Hound was an arrogant one, but he fell to her anyway. Even The Knight of The Flowers was no match for her, just another famous name, with overwhelmingly biased stories. The boy from Highgarden had never even trekked a toe onto a battlefield.

'Do you know what that man is, Lady Sansa? Clearly not if you trust him.'

'I have heard the rumours, yes. I know what he is. Stannis is a killer…same as my brother, Ramsey, all of them. I do know what he is, but it makes no matter. I will never trust him, but I will use him get what I need.'

'It's not just the men that are killers, my lady. When the chance comes, to kill Stannis, I shall tak-,'

Immediately stern and shouting, Sansa lashed out at her. 'No, Brienne, you will not! Stannis is a King, with an army all around him. I need Stannis and his men to take back Winterfell from the Roose Bolton. What happens to Stannis after that, I truly do not care, but if you are to be released, you must settle you woes with the man. Otherwise he will execute you. You can hardly protect me if you are ash.' The girl was plumper than she remembered. Her body grew more shapely with every passing moon. Despite all that, her face boldly wore her misery, resembling a sulking whipped hound.

She clinched her teeth, till it hurt, cursing silently, mentally condemning Stannis to a matter of painful deaths that she so desperately wanted to execute herself. But she took her orders from this girl sat before her. _A girl in need of help…dammit Brienne, pull yourself together. Look at her, she needs you._ Changing the subject entirely, Brienne asked her a simple question.

'Are you okay, Lady Sansa?' She was angry at her, yes, but she was bound by oath to care for the girl, whatever the circumstance.

The girls eyes dropped in an instant, and her hand promptly crept over her belly, before she cupped the faint hint of a bump. Brienne knew then Sansa was with child. And far worse than that, it was Ramsey Boltons child, most likely.

'M-my lady…you must not tell a soul. Nobody can know. Mothering a Bolton would have me and my child fed to the hounds,' Sansa welled up as she choked on her words.

'I would never…you have my word.' She meant it. But Sansa was no longer safe, even with her brother at her side. _I cannot protect her in here…nor if Stannis has me burned. Curse him to the gods, let them call judgement on his crimes. He'll burn in the seventh hell, with Ramsey, his father and all the rest._

The girl stood, soaking her tears into her sleeves. 'My brother will see you to discuss terms of your release. Pod too. I beg you to forget Stannis, _for now._ There are bigger wars to win, and I need you at my side when they begin.' Sansa peered over her shoulder as a guard entered, prompting her leave. 'I wish I could stay longer but I have a cloak to prepare before Jon departs for The Karhold. Good day, Brienne of Tarth,' she finished with, bowing before her, then exiting swiftly.

 _Gods damn her,_ she rued, as the guard escorted her away and bolted up the door.

Pod broke his silence, when no ears were around to hear but her own.

'My lady,' he said confidently. 'Sansa is right. Stannis can wait, for a time. Better to use a man's assists before killing him and sacrificing a greater cause. You may have no love for him, I doubt there are many who do, but he can help the Stark's reclaim their home.'

She couldn't help snap at his voice. 'I bloody know that, Pod! Of course I know that.' She stood for the first time in days. Her back and her legs ached from hard sleeping and sitting still for so long. She paced around the dismal cell to stretch her legs, buffing out the stiffness in her knees with each step.

'The sooner we are released, the better. I'm not one for confinement, Podrick.' A lump creeped into her throat, trying to fend off the words she was about to say. 'I'll never forgive Stannis, _never_ , but I must hold my oaths to Sansa over my own. I swore I would kill him, and I will. But for now, I must honour my lady's wishes. She's not safe up there, not with all those snakes probably eyeing her up for a betrothal, or worse. I must protect her, in honour of her mother.'

She swallowed the lump and sat down once more, hoping it was the last time in this frozen pile of shit, trying to forget Stannis Baratheon existed. But the gods were cruel, and to her own disarray, the man himself so happened to be their next guest. The King no one wanted came to them just after sundown, she guessed. The distinction between day and night was a mystery to her down here.

He entered alone, despite a guard's council. Ushering the man away, assuring nothing will happen, the King on Dragonstone donned a ridiculous golden antler crown. Placing a firm fist around the pommel of his blade. Despite her wishes, Brienne knew she was too weak to kill a pigeon, let alone an armed man with guards posted on the door outside. Her breath went in his presence, and she could not comprehend a minuscule idea of what he could want from her. For years she had prepared a speech of sorts for when she would finally meet him, yet it didn't seem fitting now, given her circumstances, so she opted with saying nothing at all.

Stannis sat where Sansa had, only two paces, at the most, away from her. _I could do it. Right now. A quick snap of the neck and I could do it. Before he could even draw his sword._ She was tender and her flesh now sunk into her bones but she could summon all the strength she had left for one swift strike and it would all be over. But she didn't, her conscience echoing the wishes of Lady Sansa. She could only watch as the man eyed around the bleak black prison, looking plain bored, wearing an almost smug smirk on his stone lips.

'Brienne of Tarth,' he said, finally engaging his gaze at her. 'How are you enjoying your stay?' A foul jest in her eyes, not even a glint of remorse, and in poor humour given circumstances.

' _Brother Killer,'_ she spat back, venomously, though it just made him smile. She held her burning glare, whilst her blood began to boil, quietly begging the gods to grant her the strength.

'You have a tongue sharp as your Lannister sword,' he mocked, in ill fashion. She despised the notion of _him_ questioning her loyalty, of all people. 'It was quite the performance you put on back there. Many of the men believe you have gone mad.' He looked at Pod, who just averted his eyes until it was all could do not to attract attention.

'I know what I saw. Let them mock me.' Her bitterness flushed in her voice.

'And what did you see, Brienne of Tarth?'

She had told the story many a time, to Margery Tyrell, to Sansa, and others but not a soul had believed her, all claiming it had been her who'd slain Renly. She recalled the boy King Joffrey even praising her for ending the degenerates life. So many had called her so, it was hard for Brienne to convince herself she wasn't mad. Lady Catelyn was the only witness, and she was dead. _They would have branded her mad too, no doubt._ Only Stannis could put her mind to rest now.

'I saw a shadow with your face murder my King, in cold blood…' The words stuck in her throat slightly, and a tear fell from her eye from just remembering her Renly's beautiful face. 'You used blood magic to kill him…do you deny it?'

Stannis sighed out what seemed a long awaited breath, as if he just released all the weight of the world from his chest. Then rather casually, he confessed. 'I did. I'm not proud, admittedly. He was my brother. I loved him once, the boy he was. But the man he grew to be…he didn't deserve to die the way he did, I regret that much at least.'

Brienne gulped in her throat, sounding like she'd swallowed a frog, croaking its way down her gullet. She was overwhelmed, despite the confession she had been looking for all this time. It was just a shock to her he so openly yielded. _Is that all it took?_ She looked to see Pod's reaction, but his eyes hadn't left the floor.

'I want you to say it…I want you to say you murdered my King.'

He sighed once more, deeper this time, as if he actually felt some remorse. It still wasn't enough for her though; nothing would be but nicking Stannis's head from his shoulders. With a long pause, he finally uttered the words she had so long ached to hear.

'I murdered my brother…gods…god, I don't bloody know.' She watched as he clenched his jaw and ground his teeth together, doing all he could to not make eye contact with her. He found his gaze aimed at the torch on the wall, the flames sparkling in eyes. 'All I have done, I've done in the service of R'holler. He whispers in the flames, The Red Woman hears, then she whispers in my ear, but nobody knows if it's real. She promised me a son, too… but I've got nothing but blood from her and her God.'

'Then why go on? Why carry on burning people at the stake?'

'Because I am the Prince that was promised…the Lord of Light has burdened me with that title, and so I must do my duty. One day you must do yours.'

 _Prince that was promised? And they said I was mad. Stannis is a bloody fanatic. Perhaps it's the Red Woman who is so dangerous._

'Does that make you feel better or worse, Brienne of Tarth?' His hint of a smile was ugly, ever smug, yet slightly remorseful. His eyes though, they were as ever intent on the fires blooming from the torch.

'One day, Lord Stannis, I will avenge him. I will drive Oathkeeper through you, I vow it,' she spat back bluntly, her heart full of promises. She caught his eyes attention once more at least.

'And that is your duty. Right now however, your duty lies elsewhere. You serve the Stark's, and the Stark's are in need of you,' he told her.

'I serve Lady Sansa,' she said, adamant and stubborn. 'Only Lady Sansa. Not her brother, not not the Lannisters and certainly not you.' She eyed him with disgust, her hatred running deep.

'Lady Sansa is a Stark, is she not?' He raised an untamed, almost grey eyebrow.

'She is, but still, it is her I take my orders from, no matter what titles you hold. I will serve her until my dying day. If that day is when I execute you, then so be it. I would gladly give my life to take yours.' Threatening the life of a King was death, but Renly was her King, so she would never kneel to his brother for the sake of loyalty, above all else.

Stannis sighed once more. 'I cannot bring my brother back from his grave. I will not give you my life either.' He shook his head, as if he were fending off voices within his skull, arguing amongst themselves. 'For the murder of my brother, I will grant one request, if it is within my power, it is yours. Then I will hear no more. A knighthood perhaps?' It was purely an insult, yet he had not a clue.

'Do you think that will stop me? Do you really think I would sell my honour, abandon my quest to avenge Renly for a bloody knighthood?' She almost turned red, with steam bubbling out of her ears. But she thought about potential conflicts that would surely arise in the wars to come. _At some point, I may have to cross swords with a man I think I love…he was not Renly but a truer knight than anyone knows._ Then she knew what she wanted from this snake usurper.

'Then not a knighthood, make it a proper hot meal and bath, if it would please you only for an evening. Perhaps your early freedom.' Too easily the King was frustrated with her.

'Fine. You want my cooperation and I will give it to you, because that is what my lady demands. Spit on your knighthood and spit on your meal. But you won't like my price,' she promised, feeling the guilt run down her neck as she swallowed her failed oaths to Renly.

'You need only name it,' he replied.

'When this is all over and the battles won or lost, I want Ser Jaime Lannister pardoned and unharmed. And at no point in this war will I swing a sword at him, in honour of the debts I owe him,' she demanded, proudly.

'The Kingslayer?' Stannis almost laughed to himself, shock if anything, it seemed.

'You owe him as much a debt as I. You would never be in line to be King had Ser Jaime not drove his sword through The Mad King. And the city you want to sack would only be a pile of ash had he not of acted. You would be the King of corpses otherwise.'

'He murdered a man he was sworn to protect. He lies with his sister in the bed of Kings and you want to stray him from justice?' Ser Jaime's sins could never be overlooked if no one knew the truth of it all, the deeds he has done in silence.

'And you murdered your brother. Yet when he committed his foul crime, thousands were spared and gruesome death. Though, a love for burning men alive is something you and the Targaryans have in common,' she would never let him forget, and she intended for him to fully well know that.

'Fine. The Kingslayer will be pardoned for his crimes, crimes washed out by his good deeds to the Seven Kingdoms. This is what you demand in return for a sue of peace between us. So that is what I expect. You hold your honour in high regard, so it would be almost a crime to do otherwise.' With business done and dusted, he got up to leave almost immediately. 'Jon Stark will see you soon, he has a quest for you.'

'Tell him don't bother, send someone else,' she said, telling herself she wasn't a servant at the Stark's disposal.

'There is no one else, only you.' Before he left he stopped. 'The Mad King was exactly as he is dubbed…but I met Rhaegar, once. My brother was a fool, but Rhaegar was loved from Dorne to Riverrun. If he had defeated my brother at The Trident, perhaps Westeros would be a better place. He may have made a finer King than any of us, even Renly.' He didn't wait for her reply. She took not a thought on what he said, she only listened to his footsteps as the ascended up the stairs, fading quieter after each step.

Pod chimed up. 'Do you think he'll really pardon Ser Jaime?'

'I don't know. Stannis has a reputation for not taking his word lightly. I heard his Hand had his fingers taken by Stannis himself. Ironic, but strange. We shall see.' She believed Stannis would hold his word, if she held hers. An easy task, it was not, since she wanted his faced torn from his skull every time she saw it.

Newly made Stark, Jon, Sansa's half brother came to visit her next. Northerners were more or less renowned south of Riverrun for their relentless dullness stewed with a distinctive bleak grimness that rivalled the regions own landscape, and Jon Stark did more than don that reputation. His face was pale and gaunt, with snowy white sunken cheeks, topped off with a fresh coal hint of a beard. But it was his eyes that held hers. They looked scared, and passed that, nothing at all. She wondered if his loyalty to a man like Stannis was merely honour bound. _Or perhaps pure desperation. Stannis is no man worth any friends,_ she spited.

' _Lady Brienne._ I wanted to thank you in person for bringing my sister back to me. I can't imagine the trouble doing so has brought you,' the new Warden of The North grabbed a nearby stool and plonked himself down on it, as Stannis had, and his sister before him.

'Jon Snow,' she threw back, offended. 'And I am no lady. You shan't see me galavanting around in a foolish shiny frock, acting the dumb bloody idiot at the joy of up jumped men.'

'Apologies if I have offended you, my lad—Ser,' the fresh Lord stuttered.

She couldn't resist tutting, but she ignored his unintended mockery.

'Yes I saved your sister. As I swore I would to her mother.' She aimed a glance at Pod, who shyly nodded his head. Despite him being a bumbling oath for a squire, Brienne had grown to trust Pod's judgement. Sansa's brother was no Stannis, even Pod could see that.

'Truly, I am grateful for your honour. More honour than most of the pretenders garbed in knights arms, to pursue your vowel even after Lady Catelyn's death.' The lad choked up slightly at her name. 'My step mother loved me not, nor I her, but I know if she were here, she'd be grateful as well.'

She eyed around at her damp, droll, stinking hole of a cell, contemplating what that gratitude was worth. 'It's nice to see how grateful you northerners are,' she snapped. The boy clenched his jaw and swallowed his words.

'Do you know what Stannis is?' She didn't care if she sounded a thousand times mad explaining the shadow she saw, the one with Stannis's face, the one that had drifted into Renly's tent and plunged only the gods knew what through her King's heart. Stannis himself had put her doubts to rest, confirming what she saw to be the truth.

'I've heard rumours. A chain of whispers some how found their way to The Wall, even if a little untruthful. But most of the letters I read said you did it?' He asked her, by the sounds of it, instead of simply accusing her, which she oddly liked. But that emotion stirred into bitterness at the very thought. _And what an easy story that one is. Brienne The Beauty, Kingslayer, madwoman and liar. It pieces together like a sick puzzle._

'I didn't kill Renly. I loved him. And frankly, I don't care if you do think I murdered him. You follow Stannis, so if you come to defend him when the time comes, you'll fall as well,' she promised.

Surprisingly, a smile found its way onto Jon's lips. 'You are all Sansa promised you were. Stubborn, but loyal.'

'Loyal to your sister, Lord Stark. And her mothers memory, and to my King, Renly Baratheon. Not to you Lord Stark. Unless you're here to release me, tell me what you want or go,' her patience had hit its peak.

'Look, I don't know what happened down there. Any of it, truly. On The Wall, they're all just words scribbled onto parchment. Dark words, mostly, words to make you feel black as the raven who carried them,' he looked at Pod, shivering in the corner, before carrying on, in his grim northern grunt. 'Whatever Stannis has done, he is still the rightful King, whether I like it or not. And Renly wasn't, whether you like it or not. Renly stole the crown, so Stannis killed him…he had no rights to The Iron Throne.'

'What about right of conquest, Lord Stark? No one wanted Stannis for their King, and who'd want to die for a man like him. Renly was loved, and he loved his people with equal measure—,' she was interrupted.

'I have not come here to talk of old wars and betrayals, otherwise we would have things to discuss in there plenty. You have half my father's sword, do you not?' Jon asked her boldly. It was likely he wanted to reclaim his family's heirloom. She could not argue with that, especially cooped up in this dismal cell.

'Have it, if you will. It's purpose is fulfilled,' she sulked. _Oathkeeper_ was a blade forged for a Stark to wield, stolen by the Lannisters when Lord Tywin believed he had ended the Stark dynasty. Ser Jaime wanted her to use it in his name, protecting Ned Stark's daughters. But deep down, she held the Knight's sentiment close to her heart, and that sword, her once glimmering sapphire armour and The Imp's bumbling squire were all reminders of how she loved Ser Jaime Lannister for the true knight the world knew him not to be. But she was adamant she'd seen the real man beneath the gold, the lions, the ego.

'The Kingslayer gave you that sword to find and protect my sisters. Not just Sansa. I admit as children, we shared no love. Her mother saw to that much.' Jon rubbed his eyes, clearly his burdens since leaving The Wall had taken their toll on the boy, Brienne noted. 'Not that I blame her. Not many men would be so bold as to bring back the only evidence of his tainted nobility into the home of his true born children. Yet my father did just that. A bastard hasn't an easy life. But Arya loved me for who I was, and I the same for her. If she is out there, I want you to use that sword to find her, and bring her home. And if I fall against the Boltons, I task you, in Lady Catelyn's name to help them flee Westeros should it be necessary.'

In all the madness at Winterfell, her mind completely blanked on matter of Arya Stark. By chance, her and Pod stumbled on to the little lady in the mountains, same way as she happened to find Sansa at an inn. Both had responded with mistrust, the lion pommel on _Oathkeeper_ contributed to that. She wore the bruises The Hound had given her for weeks after she'd killed him. But the girl seemed contently safe with him, and as wild as any brigand she could have come across travelling through the mountains. _Did I kill her only chance at survival? The Hound was a dog, but he wasn't Joffrey's. Not since the Blackwater, if the tales are true. Perhaps she was truly safe, with a Clegane of all people._ She remembered the girls fierceness with a rue smile.

She had to relinquish the poor boy of his worries. So far, he seemed genuine enough for her to trust him with Sansa, despite his poor taste in company. But Pod beat her to the punch.

'M-my Lord,' her squire stuttered. 'Y-your sister…Arya, she lives.'

'Arya's alive? Are you sure?' Jon Stark stood and hassled Pod for the truth of it all. Brienne studied his reaction, to confirm her doubts or remove them. _He is their brother after all, and a bastard no more,_ she contemplated.

'Y-yes. We went to the Eerie to find her, and stumbled upon her through the mountains. The Hound had her…but she seemed not to be his prisoner.'

'Gods, I knew it in my bones. She was always a troublesome one, Arya, but that was just how she was. She never wanted to be a lady, instead a fighter,' the choked up boy claimed. 'Is she well? I can barely remember her face.'

Brienne weighed in, mustering a slight moment of trust. 'She seemed fierce, as I was once, when I was a young girl.' She smiled remembering. 'She didn't look much a lady no, but I imagine she prefers it so. Her blade was skinny but she was keen to use it. And as her sister was, both were sharp to strangers, cautious and aware of the dangers her name could bring her. I'd bet my armour she lives still,' Brienne's smile lingered as she spoke.

Her words yielded a curious smirk to the northerner's lips, before he whispered ' _Needle.'_ She was unsure what it meant, but the boy reeked of relief. He spoke on.

'She is alive, I know it. I just hope she finally has learned how to wield that sword.' He stood and went to the door. He sent the guard away before returning to his seat. 'In that case, I ask you a more challenging task. My sisters aside, Lady Stark was unaware her sons lived. I'm sure given the chance, she would have charged you the task of finding them too. I will urge your release, with terms you make your peace with Stannis for now—,' she couldn't let him finish, or spit on her honour.

'I've made my peace with him, for now, but I will never allow Stannis to live if I had the chance. Release me from this pit, and your King may rot in the seventh hell, one day. I will have justice for Renly's murder, Lord Stark. Whether it's sooner or later.' she argued.

'No, you will not,' Jon shouted, startlingly stern above all else. He cooled quickly. 'Not today at least. We need Stannis to fight in the long night, or everyone will die.' She couldn't resist a snort. _Stannis couldn't break The Imp, he is no more fit to lead anyone._

Jon Stark's northern temper flared instantly, as he screamed swords at her.

'Do you not believe me?! The Others will march south and Stannis is the only one with the power to stop them. When your Kingslayer decides how real they are, he'll rally his men into a slaughter, more to join the army of the dead. We must work together, for the greatest of goods. And you cannot save my brother if you are hung for murdering a King.' The boy became a man in that moment, rising from his chair and drawing a torch from the wall. He stared, intently into it.

'I am charged with protecting Sansa. Not to act as your courier. And as for The Others, curse them for taking Stannis's life before me. He confessed you know, not even a few hours past. He told me how he spawned a son of shadows, sending him to wield the knife he could not. I will not forget his crimes. Nor should you.'

'If you truly serve Lady Catelyn's ghost, she would beg you to save her son. Even the bastard knows that. Here, I have something for you.' He reached under his cloak, pulling a wolf headed sword from his waist, before laying it before her. He had another, it's twin almost, strapped to his back. 'A lion head pommel would only cause Bran to react as the girls did. It is a Stark sword after all.'

She thought about it. She knew the bastard was right, Lady Catelyn cared for nothing more than here children. The thought of piercing Oathkeeper through Stannis fogged her judgement, but Sansa was safe in the company of her family. Arya was Gods know where but her sons, that were not after all burned, remained still in need of rescue. Who better than her?

'The swords name is _Oathkeeper._ If I return your brother, it is Ser Jaime Lannister's honour you should thank, as much as that would shock you.' She spoke his name proud as the lion on his sigil.

He did sound shocked. 'Why would Ser Jaime care if my sisters made it home alive? They're nothing to him, no one is.' But Jon was wrong, Brienne knew.

'You know, I met him, once. Back at Winterfell. After I had heard all the stories of Robert's Rebellion from my father, Robert himself sounded a man born to don the crown. I was disappointed when I saw what he had become. Fat, red of face, half drunk. But when I saw Ser Jaime in his gleaming white armour, his crown of golden hair, I thought he looked like a man who should be King. He wished me luck before I left for The Wall, even if it so happened to be in mock. I preferred the company of his brother, however. The Imp had a sympathy for The Watch, and bastards it seemed,' he said, stood over Oathkeeper.

She cringed at the notion. The Imp had a perverse reputation of being a repulsive creature, and she found it odd so many had seemed fond of the half-man; Ser Jaime of course, Pod, Jon, even Sansa, forced to marry the thing still found him not half as horrifying as the whispers hissed. Then she thought to herself with dissatisfaction, _or perhaps people just like oversell a famous name._ She had thought the same back on the stoney bridge when she'd duelled with Jaime, proving him to be not as grand in swordplay as the stories. _His ego was bigger than his bloody sword._

'Many will never know of the deeds Jaime Lannister has cast onto these Seven Kingdoms, dragging his name through the mud whilst carrying these burdens. A shame for him, the nickname _Kingslayer_ stuck, when the King he felled was a barbaric madman who tortured your own grandfather and uncle. As for The Imp, Westeros is a better place with Tywin Lannister dead, so I should owe him that much. He must have had his reasons, as any man should. And he was never cruel to Sansa as his nephew was. She spoken of him fondly, if at all.'

'He shoved a boy from a window. My brother, a mere boy. A knight against a ten year old bloody boy. How much honour is that worth?' The Starks had many reasons to hate the Lords of Casterly Rock, making the Lordling a cripple was by far up there with the worse of it. Now crippled himself, how he sulked after losing his sword hand to Roose Bolton's rat faced dog. She wondered if that was redemption enough for a man like him.

'And perhaps he has paid his debt, giving him a true taste of consequences in life. What he was before, the man he was when he tried to murder your little brother…The _Kingslayer died_ the day he lost his hand. He's felt Brandon Stark's torment. I'm sure neither will become who they were supposed anymore.'

'A Lannister always pays his debts, it is so commonly said. Rescue Bran, then maybe Ser Jaime can hold at least a shred of honour.'

It was hard to agree to the terms. Stannis drawing breath was enough to make her sick to the pit of her empty stomach. Having a second taste of that rancid northern slop she'd had for supper forced her belly to rumble, horribly.

'I will rescue your brother,' she said, reluctantly. 'But not for you, certainly not for Stannis, not even for Ser Jaime. Lady Catelyn trusted me with her life, and her family's. I may have failed to save her, but I could bring her son home at least.'

'Thank you, Lady Brienne,' he blundered. 'Be sure to keep Oathkeeper close. Valyrian steel is a rare thing, but powerful, especially north of Castle Black.'

'I'll be sure to wrap up warm. The real north can't be any worse than in here. I should think Pod and I would be glad to leave this hole.' _Gods, I hate this place._

'I'm afraid he isn't going with you,' Jon announced, a sucker punch. 'The North isn't safe for a large force. And only the Freefolk know how to navigate it, you'll go with a party of them.'

She was shocked. The Wildlings were brutes. And beneath that, Pod would surprisingly be missed. But why? 'And what will happen with my squire?'

'Podrick was Tyrion Lannister's squire. Who better to sail to Myreen to pact with him.' She had no words from Pod, nor any herself. _What has The Imp got to pique a Stark's interest all the way across The Narrow Sea._ 'I wish you safe travels, beyond The Wall, my lady, perhaps we'll meet when I return.'

'Where are you going?' She blurted out, before he could dash out the door.

'To teach Wildlings how to hold a castle before Roose Bolton takes it from them,' he left with, smiling.


	10. A Thousand Year Promise

**T** **he Thousand Year Promise**

 _Promise me, Ned._

When Bran woke, he did so reluctantly. Once more, The Three Eyed Raven cut short a memory he was more than curious to see; his father, young and bold ascending the steps of a tower, farther south than he had ever been. Ser Arthur Dayne's body was left in his wake, cooking in the hot summer sun. The Sword of the Morning had lived up to what Lord Eddard sold him as, a finer swordsman than most, only to be stabbed in the back by Howland Reed, saving his disarmed father from a premature execution.

'After all you've shown me, you stop there?' Bran queried in his frustration, the woman's voice a bell, chiming still in his thoughts. It echoed faint, shrill and weak. _She was dying,_ Bran deduced.

'You are not ready yet. First you must see more. Only then can you understand,' the old man preached back. He had done a lot of that, and always after hiding the past from him.

'This was important, I know it. My Aunt Lyanna was in that tower, wasn't she? My father…he found her on her deathbed.' Bran had heard the tales about how Rhaegar Targaryan had kidnapped his father's sister, Robert Baratheon's betrothed, and scurried her away to a tower near Dorne. He remembered fondly Maester Luwin nagging at him in his lessons, teaching him the histories of Robert's rebellion and the reign of The Mad King, and all the battles his father had fought in. Yet their were some stories he was never told, and his curiosities were haunting him.

'We will see more on the morrow. Now, you must rest,' the old man said, frozen inside his roots and branches, with a face of ice; showing no hint of emotion. His pale, frail body tangled between the paler roots, sunk into what looked to almost be a chair. _Or a throne. A throne of the real north. A throne I shan't live my life in, gods give me strength._

'He's right, Bran,' Jojen seconded. 'The visions will take their toll if you aren't careful. The roots may take you to places you would not wish to see again. Your eyes may behold things that would change a man, forever. Dark secrets live amongst the faces, secrets meant for no men to hear.'

'It would be a welcomed sight. How am I to stop The Others inside of this cave?' He glanced at Leaf. After all he'd seen on the journey to the great weirwood, the children of the forest stilled awed him slightly, whether it was their woodland like appearance, or the fact they still lived in this world, in this time. Bran was not sure what it was about them, but they awed him. 'You've shown me how The White Walkers were created, why not show me how to defeat them?'

'Because you aren't ready, Brandon Stark,' Leaf shrieked. 'The Others were made using powerful magic, and The Night King himself will do all he can to stop you. They are evil creatures, who pray on the living. Their thirst for blood is only quenched by death.'

'Then why bring them into the world?' His question parried the forest child into a shameful silence. He remembered the vision, it was almost like a dream but it was realer; his screams were vivid and ear bloodying. The Children had infused a dragonglass dagger into his heart, turning it to ice along with the rest of him. They had birthed a true evil, none like Westeros had seen before, which was just as relevant now. Finally, Leaf spoke.

'To protect ourselves from you.' Leaf had a queer smile on its face, an evil one Bran thought. 'Our people were butchered by men, our Gods torn up from the earth and burned. We needed to defend ourselves…so we did. The White Walkers were made to kill the living. But they have turned into far more evil and bitter creatures than we ever intended,' she said, her bark looking smile fading into a sad pout.

Her testimony was irrelevant now however. 'Show me the world years from now, let me see what happens after the long night.' Bran was ever as eager and impatient.

'No!' The Three Eyed Raven snapped at him. 'The day is done, the sun sets in the sky and you must rest. Go now, we will continue in the morning. Hodor, take him.' At the old man's command, Hodor entered and scooped Bran up without mustering so much as a squirm of struggle.

As Hodor carried him off to the north most part of the cave, their acting quarters, he overheard the mutterings behind him. It wasn't quite clear, Leaf sounded doubtful, but the old man settled the matter altogether.

When they arrived, Mira had made a fire, which sat battling frosty breezes roaring through the cave tunnels, a basilisk of cold. Hodor sat him down next to it. Bran felt the blaze on his face, watering his eyes upon a glance. Jojen sat opposite him, next to his sister.

'It's too big,' he complained.

'Then sit further away,' Mira teased. 'You're sulking.'

'I am not. He shows me things that I care about and then whisks me off before I can take any of it in,' Bran had a whine in his voice, he could hear it bounce of the walls. _I'm not sulking,_ he reassured himself.

'Go too deep and you'll not want to comeback. You'll forget what is real and live in past. That cannot happen and you cannot lose yourself because we need you, Bran. Everyone needs you,' Jojen lectured.

He spent the most of the night silent, pondering the war stories father had his wolf pups sit down to, in front of the hearth at Winterfell. Whilst they dined on Summer and Mira's morning kill, a feast of tasteless meat, Elk maybe, and a slab of hard cheese they'd stashed since Winterfell, Bran had swords and heroes battling in his daydreams. Sir Arthur Dayne had been a splendid knight at arms, and he'd always known father had beaten him in single combat, but not quite in that fashion. _Stabbed in the back by Howland Reed, then slain with his own Dawn by father. No wonder father never boasted as other men would have._ Bran slept wondering what mysteries beheld that tower near Dorne…and when he woke, nothing had changed.

'Hodor,' he whispered, in attempt not to ruse the others. But the stable boy was deep in his slumber still. Frustrated by his bleak and boring surroundings, he dragged his body and lifeless legs across the dirt towards the rear exit of the cave. The old oaken door creaked loudly as he struggled to open it. _Damn these useless legs. Damn them to all the hells there are._ Winter winds hissed through, clawing at his face, as he crawled outside, raking his way to a quiet spot where the waking sun was visible.

The sunrise was spectacular in the north, with a stream of green winds whooshing around the sky above, looking like emerald dragon fire. Mira came after she'd woken up to catch the sun paint the sky pink. Her hair was matted from her sleep, and the night needed washing from her eyes. She smiled at him when she saw him.

'Mira. It's early, why are you awake?' She sat beside him. Summer came with her; he seemed to have grown fond of her.

'Breakfast won't catch itself. Will you come today?' She tussled between Summer's ears as his eyes went foggy and relaxed.

'No. The Raven must show me what lies in that tower. It's important…I can feel it in my bones,' he raised an arm and watched his hairs prickle up.

'What have you seen so far?' An obvious question, yet she was the first who asked.

He smiled. 'My father…and yours. When they were as young as my brothers.'

She smiled back. 'The Reeds have always served your house as faithful friends. My father spoke of yours often, and only with kindness. What was happening?'

'Fighting…Against The Sword of The Morning…' Bran always wished he could fight like that, once, before he fell.

'My father never spoke much of the war…though perhaps for the right reasons.' She got up and put her hands on his cheeks, before leaning down to place a kiss on his forehead. 'I hope you find what you are looking for,' she said as she bounded off, Summer at her heels.

He was glad, he'd turned red with blush. His stomach fluttered full of butterflies, whilst he watched her canter away. He snapped his neck to find Hodor watching with an innocent smirk, but he only said 'Hodor.' _She kissed me? For luck?_ He poked at his useless legs, cursing their existence. _The day I can hunt alongside her without looking through Summer's eyes._

'Take me back, Hodor,' he commanded.

'Hodor,' he replied.

They made haste to the trees heart, where sat no differently from any other day, The Three Eyed Raven was locked into his constant position. _Gods, at least I can move some of me._

'Take me back to that tower, I must know what happened there,' Bran asserted, but he wasn't Lord of Winterfell here, nor a prince of the north.

'Another time. Before, you must know of a promise. One a thousand years old and beyond that even,' he spoke it almost proudly, smug that he knows these ancient things. Bran would be less bitter minded had he simply let Bran see what he wanted. But Bran knew The Three Eyed Raven did things in his own time and he would simply have to wait, gritting his teeth at the notion all the while.

'I want to see my Aunt Lyanna. She's in the tower, isn't she? It's where Rhaegar held her captive? It's where she died?' Bran had been trying to piece it together, and those were the questions he wanted answered most. 'I know you know these things, and I know you can show me.'

'You seem to know a great many things yourself. You will not learn more. You will learn everything,' said the old man, triggering Bran to rage.

'EVERYTHING ABOUT WHAT?!' His frustration exploded out of him at that point. All the riddles had cast him angry.

'All that there is, all that there was and all that there will be…but only when you are truly ready to do so. If you see through angry eyes, you may not see what your are supposed to.'

Cooling quickly, true to the Stark name, Bran yielded. 'Fine, show me what you will.'

'I shall. You will lead in time Bran, believe me. That is what is promised, as is more. Now I will teach you. Come, take the root. See how the lion does what it needs to stay strong and to survive,' the old man said, nodding towards one of the many milk coloured bones from the great weirwood above.

Bran did as he was bid, firmly clutching hold of the white root. As his hand grew cold, his eyes rolled back and he was in the cave no more. His eyes opened and before him was a great oaken door, amongst a castle in chaos. Cries were coming from within, the sounds of men dying from elsewhere, pleading for their lives, and they died screaming mercy.

'Where are we?' He saw red walls all over, a keep of much importance he guessed.

'You'll see, enter,' the Raven prompted.

He opened the doors leading to a throne room, crowded by maybe ten people, Knights mostly, armed to brink in stunning snowy armour. Dragon skulls paved their way towards the throne, forged from a thousand enemy swords, black as night and uglier than any chair. _Kings Landing. It's the Iron Throne…and The Mad King,_ Bran noticed.

Bran walked down the throne room, the skulls of long dead winged beasts growing bigger towards The Iron Throne, whilst a flurry of chaotic screams chanted through the creaking doors behind him; a bewildered Kings Landing panicked in the streets below. The King hurled orders to the countless men at his feet. Sat in the Iron Throne, a seat of dark steel, with a thousand sharpened teeth emerging from its core, the Mad King Aerys Targaryan barked commands like a vicious dog, hungering for fire and blood.

'Your grace, we urged you not trust them. They are sacking the city. They'll soon be on our doorstep,' one man wept, in a squeaky plea.

'What are your orders, my King,' a calm knight prompted.

'I WANT HIS HEAD! I WANT THEM BURNED!' The blood lust Lord of the Seven Kingdoms raged to his inferiors gathered below, some on their knees, begging for surrender, others silent and stone.

'Lannister! Bring me your traitor father's head, boy,' Aerys ordered, to a familiar knight, donning the glorious gleaming armour of the Kingsguard. _It's Ser Jaime Lannister,_ Bran recognised. _The things I do for love,_ echoed a voice, though Bran didn't know the source.

'It's the sack of Kings Landing, when Lord Tywin stormed the city, and my father,' he announced, his ears peeled towards a thousand forged swords, and the man who sat upon them.

'It is,' the old man humbly reassured.

The whole throne room was on a knifepoint, knives sharper than the steel on its throne, and in this moment of peril, all these men needed a leader, a King; to guide them, spur them, inspire bravery and defend their city. That's what his father would have done, Robb and Jon too he expected.

But all they had was a bitter, twisted, old mad King, dark voices chiming in his head, who ordered his citizens, the army sacking him, his court, all burned alive, as easy as a knight armed with Valyrian steel could slice through cheese.

The argument at the foot of throne grew more heated, men raising their voices, urging to be heard by someone, but Ser Jaime and Aerys Targaryan himself stood above them all, their curses rung louder by a half at least.

'I won't do it, he is my father,' the golden haired Ser Jaime disobeyed. 'Surrender the castle! Protect your people!'

'Spit on my grave before I yield this castle to the lions or the wolves! All shall kneel before the dragon, or die screaming and burning! Your father's head, boy, bring it to me now or you shall burn as well, Lannister!' The Mad King had turned almost purple with rage, his crazed eyes seemed to melt a hole wherever he looked. Even his bravest men at arms squirmed at his stare.

A frail, decrepit, skeleton of a man scaled the steps on knees that looked to buckle at a moments notice. 'You summoned me, Your Grace,' he squeaked, with a keen smirk plastered across his mouth of rotten teeth.

'Wisdom, burn them all! Burn them in their houses, burn them in their beds! Burn them all!' Already, Ser Jaime seemed forgotten to Aerys. Over and over he simply commanded 'burn them all.'

The young knight drew his sword and buried it deep into Aerys's 'Wisdom', the old sack of bones dying almost instantly. The Mad King bounded from The Iron Throne, looking to flee like a spooked horse, but Sir Jaime was on him in a second, and committed the act that had made him so famous. _Don't look away, father will know if you do,_ Jon told him. Bran made sure not flinch as the man drove his bloodied sword into The Mad King's back. _Kingslayer,_ spat Eddard Stark.

 _No, father_ , Bran argued Ned Stark's voice, _no true King would slaughter the innocents, or ask a man to kill his own father. His murder was for the greater good._ But Ser Jaime Lannister had a firm grip on his memories, Bran knew, and he knew this was not the Kingslayers most significant act. Not to Bran anyway. _The things I do for love,_ a cocky voice preached.

The screams grew grand in the streets outside but the throne room stood silent, bar one, a King who lay dying in a pool of his blood, on the steps below his own chair, kept on. 'Burn them all,' he said, croaking so much it sounded a whisper. 'Burn them all! Burn them all!'

Before Bran could see what happened next, he felt a cold hand on his shoulder, warping him back to his bleak reality. His eyes returned to the cave, the constant reminder of his useless legs. _My prison,_ Bran cursed.

'If you regard your own reality as a prison, you'll forget what it's like to be real. You serve no purpose in this world by reliving long lost histories,' the old man wretched on, reading his thoughts somehow.

'Ser Jaime…he pushed me from the tower…he made me this, all because I saw something I wasn't supposed to,' Bran was sure of it by now. _The things I do for love…_ the words he heard almost always before he fell and woke.

'That is true,' the old man bluntly replied. 'Another?'

'Yes,' he agreed, before clenching another root.

When he woke, this time, the room was dark in most places, save for a dozen candles, all with red veiled witches behind them. They stood in a circle with one hailing from the centre, her necklace bright and blinding, a flaming ruby, the size of an apple.

'The long summer looks to end, and in its stead comes a longer winter. For generations, a promise of a son to be born into this world has been prophesied, a son of fire, a warrior of light, Azor Ahai reborn, to step forth and wield the legendary Lightbringer against the darkness.' Bran noted how the woman walked the floor as if she owned the world, confident and demanding the gaze of all who listened.

'R'holler has lashed the mark; a hail from the bleeding sky announces his coming. A promise emanated from a thousand years ago has emerged in our lifetime. The Prince that was Promised, Azor Ahai, has risen, and we must find him, and heed his will.' The others muttered back in a graceful tongue Bran did not recognise.

He remembered the red mark in the sky however. He recalled how Osha said it was to mark the coming of dragons, though the people of Winterfell named it a tribute to his late Lord father, a symbol of blood. He wasn't sure what it meant truthfully, but the rest of the world had their own idea what it meant, some bizarre, others plain boring. He liked the idea of dragons sighting their mark on the sky.

'Priestess Mellisandre,' the red garbed woman declared, as another strode forward.

'The Lord of Light demands you sail to Westeros, seek out the one true king of the Seven Kingdoms. Determine whether he lives up to the role and bring back to the Temple of R'holler for examination. You seek a King, born amidst salt and smoke, born of fire and ice,' the red woman in the middle said.

'As our Lord commands, High Priestess,' replied the one hailed Mellisandre. She withdrew immediately, with a smirk she tried to mask.

'You priest, step forth,' the High Priestess ordered, and the burgundy garbed man did accordingly. 'Thoros of Myr has failed in his quest and now is silent. You will go to Westeros too, find him, and escort him back. I want to know why he did not achieve his mission and

why he failed to return upon doing so.'

'I shall, High Priestess,' the man said, bowing courteously, then stepping back. The High Priestess in the temple of R'Holler continued to assign a series of tasks, all predominantly tactics in which to spread the influence of their religion. As for the Prince that was Promised, Bran had heard rumours of Stannis Baratheon taking up with a Priestess from Asshai, a red woman, like the ones that stood before him now. Perhaps that meant Stannis was thought to be their prince of sorts, and he still claimed the Seven Kingdoms.

'What do you see?' The Raven asked him bluntly.

'I don't see anything,' Bran replied, dim to the room.

'What you see is a prophesy recited, echoed through time, ringing in the ears of now. A prince to save them, to fight his natural sworn enemy, the God of death itself,' the old man preached.

'The God of death is The Night King. They believe Stannis is to fight him?' Bran was curious of this religion, so foreign to his own; his gods were of ice and salt, theirs fire and smoke.

'Perhaps. Or perhaps they are wrong,' he replied, lifting an arm up. 'Come.'

Bran took his arm and his eyes opened beneath towers charred black, the aftermath of a brutal dragon attack. _Harrenhal,_ Bran realised. A crowd of roaring fans emanated from outside the main gate, whilst maids and cooks and squires busied around the courtyard, marching back and forth from the tourney ground sat outside. Bran followed the noise, and the maids, cooks and squires down towards a great tent, with an open field designated for a jousting ground. Bran glimpsed from afar two men, donning wonderful extravagant armour, gunning at each other atop two impressive stallion. When they collided, one man unseated another prompting the crowds to explode to life once more.

Beyond that, an unoccupied archery range sat, and further along a melee ground was deserted also. The latter of the turnout were fixated on the joust. Bran strode closer, his legs feeling as real as they had ever. The great gazebo disguised the true number of the crowds, as small folk flocked the fences in their hundreds. Beneath the tent was a stand, and by the looks of it, half the lords of Westeros were seated below The Mad King himself. He recognised only banners, however; the three headed dragon of the crown, the falcon on a crescent moon of House Arryn, Robert Baratheon's own black stag, uncrowned. But amongst them all, it was the grey Direwolf on a snowy field of House Stark that caught Bran's attention. Before the old man could advise against it, Bran bounded off to find his family who were likely beneath those banners.

'Bran, don't,' an all too familiar voice whistled behind him.

He darted onto the jousting lines, whilst two knights prepared to clash in the middle. Though none noticed him; he simply didn't exist to the world here. He dashed passed the peasants cheering at the fences, passed the squires bumbling, passed all the lords and ladies and their banners, until he could only see Stark. And there he was, his father, young and gallant, stood beside his long dead family. Bran sparsely recognised the stone likeness of his grandfather, uncle and aunt; the statues at their crypts barely looked similar to the Stark's before him. Next to his Aunt Lyanna, a stranger. Yet Bran had met him, long ago when he could still walk. It was Robert Baratheon, strong and lean, a beast among the men around him—and at least a head taller than them all. The King Bran had met was fat and puffy, a soft copy of his formidable former self. This man seemed more a King, he thought. Before he could even think to hail his father, Bran was near trampled back to reality.

A Kingsguard whistled by him, down the lines atop his angry chestnut destrier, wielding an a snake for a lance, ready to bite. But the Kingsguard toppled, and was flung from his saddle in admirable fashion. He rose to a knee coughing and wheezing slightly, but to Bran's surprise, when the man removed his helm, he donned a smile. Bran recognised the man, from another time. _Ser Arthur Dayne. Unhorsed by Rhaegar Targaryan,_ Bran realised. Old Nan had told him much of Lord Whent's Great Tournament, back in the year of the false Spring.

When Rhaegar lent a friendly hand to his Kingsguard, and pulled him back to his feet, the crowd erupted, bursting into a furnace of screams. It sounded as if thousands were attending this extravagant event. Bran could barely hear his own thoughts. The Last Dragon was adored by his subjects, in no way Bran could ever imagine. His Lord father was undoubtedly respected by his banners, his northerner's, but they would never had display affection in this manner.

Bran found himself melancholic, wondering what his life would have offered him, had he not fallen. _No, I never fall. Never._ Ser Jaime Lannister's voice echoed from somewhere. _The things I do for love._ Bran looked for him, but he was not here. The Kingslayer had been knighted at this tournament. If not for him, Bran may have found himself championing a grand tourney like Lord Whent's, a tale told for centuries to come. Once, it was all he'd ever dreamed of. But the golden haired knight had stripped him of the chance.

The final bout was taking place as the first combatant entered the tourney ground; The Crown Prince Rhaegar himself, looking glorious in his pitch armour, gleaming like black pearls, his mount dancing across the the jousting lines, forcing the small folk into a wave deafening cooing and cheers.

'The people loved him,' Bran observed, watching enviously as the renowned warrior received his countries embrace.

'They did. A fine King he would have made too, had he lived triumphant at The Trident. This was the day he would begin writing the tales of his eventual doom,' the old man babbled on. But Bran knew that already, the tourney at Harrenhal had been when Rhaegar had given his gesture to Aunt Lyanna, a crown of dusk roses, signifying her the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Entering the lines next was Rhaegar's opponent, Ser Barristen Selmy of the Kingsguard, donning gleaming milky armor, beaming rays from the sun without a dent or a scratch tarnishing the knights snowy plate. The crowd were no where near as loud for Ser Barristen as they had been for the crown prince, yet the legendary warrior did spur a flock of the crowds to roar his name proudly.

When the joust began, Bran couldn't unglue his eyes, watching eagerly at all the extravagance, all the glory; it was all he had wanted once, to be a legendary knight, who's name would ring in the ears of all those yet to even be born. But that was before.

He tried not to sulk, cursing his useless legs, whilst Rhaegar and Ser Barristen charged at one another, their mounts flicking up mud in their trails. Both men tilted their lances and raised their shields…and in all their caution, neither man landed a striking blow. The pair rapidly relayed, not letting more than a moment pass before they were at it again. This time however, it was the popular crown prince who was victorious in this bout, crashing Ser Barristen from his horse with a thunderous crack.

The Knight rose with honor, though his glorious armor remained clean no more, and his cloak looked nearer black than a pearly white. He knelt courteously at his Champion and his future King, whilst the crowd became a torrent of coos and cheers. Rhaegar addressed his subjects, all of which seemed to worship him. It made Bran's insides churn to contemplate why a monarch so many adored was stripped from this world. How many evil men had lived in his place? But Bran was soon enlightened, as Rhaegar, after claiming a crown of winter roses from Lord Whent, trotted beyond his wife, and rode straight up to Robert Baratheon and his betrothed, Lyanna Stark. The torrent of cheers died down into calm, still water. The Prince placed the roses on his aunties head, whilst Robert grew purple next to her. He whispered something, but Bran could not hear, but it made Lyanna's snowy northern cheeks flush rubies.

Next to them both, Bran eyed father. 'Father!' He screamed. But no one noticed. All eyes remained of Rhaegar. He ran towards him, but before he got close enough, the Raven blocked his path. He put his hand on Bran's shoulder and they warped once more.

When he opened his eyes, he woke not to his bleak cave, deep in the north. Instead he was surrounded by lush green trees, a pleasant breeze wafting the musty smell of the forest and damp and decay. He saw a mill on the river. 'Why did you do that?' Bran scolded, frustrated.

'They do not see you, Bran. You only must see them.' The Raven went towards the mill. Bran followed. 'What did you see?'

'The tourney at Harrenhal,' he exclaimed confidently.

'You saw history, Bran. The very birth of a bitter rivalry that would define Westeros for decades,' the Raven prattled, referring to Robert's Rebellion.

Bran tried to piece it all together. 'I don't understand though. What do Rhaegar and Lyanna have to do with the red priests?' He couldn't work out the sequence. First, Ser Jaime slays the Kingslayer, then the red witches, Harrenhal and now this mill.

The Raven turned to him, and said solemnly, 'oh, everything.'

As he walked on, Bran could see men at arms gathered at the riverbed. He did not recognise them but one looked like a red priest, garbed in ruby coloured armour and robes. Another had red receding hair, a patch covering a scarred eye socket and a lighting bolt lashed across his breastplate. They were pulling someone from the river. The body was limp, lifeless, drowned in the waters of the trident.

'A thousand year promise,' the Raven said. 'Echoing into the ears of the now. A hero, a champion, to emerge from salt and smoke, to lead the living against the dead in the long night to come. Rhaegar believed he was the Azor Ahai.'

'But Rhaegar is dead. And his sons with him,' Bran said, unsure. He saw the priest and the lightning knight kneel down and cradle the drowned person. He noticed she was a woman. He walked closer. Her skin was grey, and looked picked at by fish.

'He is. But his blood runs through the veins of others.' The Raven didn't keep pace. Nor did he look to haste Bran, which was a first. 'And that blood will save us all.'

Bran was at the riverbed. The woman had a gash across her throat, so deep her head looked likely to come off. But the red man was whispering in a strange tongue. The Lightning knight plunged a dagger into his heart suddenly, draining his own life blood, reciting another foreign prophecy. Bran crept so close he could have touched the red man.

The lightning knight died on the riverbed, his last words whispering intrigue and dark magic. The dead woman gasped for air, suddenly, as the Knights last breath left his lungs.

The Raven crept up on him. 'Beric Dondarrion, charged by your father to bring justice to the land. Even now, he leads his Brotherhood Without to greater quests. An brave man, to give his life for another.' Bran could barely listen; he couldn't break his fixation with the woman. He edged closer and closer, so eager to look upon her face. When he did, he dropped to his knees in disbelief. His heart was thumping in his ears and his chest fell tight. When she opened her eyes, she seemed scared and wary, yet she could not speak. In this world, Bran was invisible, but she noticed him, staring straight into his soul. They were eyes he once knew, seemingly closed forever yet opened once more. It was his mother.


	11. Friend of the Freefolk

**Friend of the Freefolk**

Frigid and rotten, the last lands claimed by House Karstark had become a graveyard of northern carcasses, whilst the Karhold stood occupied by an army of Wildlings. By the looks of things, the last band of surviving Karstark soldiers were fool enough to engage Tormand Giantsbane in the field, instead of sitting pretty behind strong walls. Jon's mare cracked through a ribcage beneath her hoof with a squelching crunch. Crows circled above, a signal post to the dead. Jon spied one of the black winged pests pecking out a corpses eyeball, a sight that turned his stomach.

'Burn the fallen. Winter is coming, and the dead rise with it.' A pair of Mormont men trotted off to spread the order. Jon didn't want to breath life into an enemy host right on the doorstep of his only hold fast. _One castle makes me no conqueror, and I'm no Lord if I'm defeated by_ _fresh whites_ _._

 _I shall hold no lands,_ his black brothers echoed in his head.

They passed a thousand dropped swords before reaching the main gate of The Karhold, whilst Jon noted not a single Wildling body was amongst the garden of bones and blood. _A stunning victory for The Freefolk perhaps,_ Jon wondered. He lead a modest host, a thousand men strong, beneath the stone gargoyles that quietly guarded the Karhold. One of Tormand's chieftains came to greet him, sparing him no courtesies, as Jon had expected. _Traitor,_ Ser Alister Thorne whispered.

'King Crow, you're late to the fight. You missed a good scrap.' The scraggly beard of a man chuckled to himself, resting a longsword sized axe over his shoulder. He was taller than Jon by a head and a half, but he'd learned a man's size doesn't always determine the outcome of a fight. He remembered burying a hammer into the skull of the chieftain Thenn back at the battle for Castle Black. _And he was almost as big as Hodor,_ Jon thought.

Jon climbed down from his horse and handed his reigns to Podrick Payne. The boy seemed odd and bumbled around as a lost puppy would, but Jon aimed to make a squire of him until he set sail for Mereen. The lad proved useful for minor duties, but he easily imagined the boy being under the feet of hardened knights. Though he doubted Tyrion Lannister ever had call for a squire, so this one would have suited him fine. Jon pondered if Pod had mastered pouring wine.

The boy had told him how Brienne of Tarth trained him in swordplay during his travels with her. He had no means to disrupt his learning, and had begun teaching Pod himself during their venture deep into the heart of the north. So far, he'd fought with heart, eager but clumsy; no worse than the infrequent fugitive recruits Castle Black had lured to swear the black. Giving the boy some pointers would make a swordsman of him yet. He would need it if he were to make the journey to Mereen alive.

Jon did not flinch at the notion of allying with the last of the Targaryan dynasty, despite the so called Mother of Dragons being openly at war with the current Kings of Westeros. If she made her landing and defeated Stannis and his armies before the long night, Jon wanted to be in good standings with her in hopes of gaining her support when the Others came marching.

Jon acknowledged the Wildling in a blunt manner, his patience and energy had been drained by the hard ride. 'Take me to Tormand. We have much to discuss,' Jon ordered, removing his gloves to let the cold bite at his bare hands. He flexed his burned one until the skin didn't feel tight and stiff around his fingers.

'This way then, though I warn you to watch his mood. He's taking a liking to your southern ales,' the wildling grumbled. 'Too tame for my liking. A woman's drink.' Jon would have guessed he meant wine, but he knew Tormand's man wouldn't care.

He led them into the main keep at Karhold, a grey chunk in the landscape, a square castle of moss covered stone, bleak and not near as impressive as Winterfell. To Wildlings, the Karhold must have been a wonder to lay eyes upon. He remembered Ygritte, mistaking a deserted windmill for a castle. She had never seen stones stacked so high, but her marvel at the sight was lost upon him. Being son of the Lord of Winterfell, Jon had seen many a holdfast like this one.

Reaching the main hall, Jon could already hear Tormand's voice erupting through the halls, telling a tale to his men, and seemingly in no foul mood at all. Creaking open the door to the Karstark's ancient seat, instead of a noble northern lord, Jon found a steaming Wildling boasting a conquest named Sheila, whilst his drunker companions burst into a flurry of butch giggles beside him. A hog was crackling on the spit roast, filling the room with wafts of bacon, a scent that brought Jon's mouth to water.

'Her fangs were sharp as any dagger, but believe me she knew how to use them. She was gentler than you would have expected, but that's because I tamed the beast below. She was purring for me by the end,' the Wildling leader slurped at his drink with a grin hidden beneath his fiery beard. The rest just guffawed into their cups, trying not to spit their ale and wine out.

Jon made his presence known, warmly greeting his Wildling friend.

'We know all about the bear you didn't fuck, Tormand,' he heckled, drawing every eye in the room upon him, one pair at a time. Tormand looked his way last, but Jon had a grin for him.

'Well, fuck a bear called Sheila. Good to see you again, Lady Snow,' Tormand threw back in good spirit. 'Have you not had a haircut yet?' Jon smiled and the Wildling smiled back.

'You took the castle well enough. You left a bloody field of corpses, damn near snapped my mares leg,' Jon said, making his way over to the hearth. The warmth was welcomed in the midsts of cold northern winds hissing through the Wall, freezing the country frigid. The eyes in the room returned to their conversations, paying Jon no mind. No longer did the Wildlings wince at the sight of this old crow.

'If men willingly run into my axe, who am I to deny them a painful death,' Tormand replied, drinking his horn dry. 'And now we drink in celebration. It was a fine victory too. The cunts should have stayed behind their walls. But no, they came right at us. Any man with eyes would know to stay hidden in the castle. Even a brute like me. You know, I think I'd make a good Lord.'

 _Gods, he is drunk,_ Jon mused. 'They will not forget this defeat. If the other Northern Lords find out Roose Bolton can't even protect them from Wildlings, they'll flock from his side like spooked cattle,' he said. 'But he won't sit tight at Winterfell for long after this, and there is still a war to be won,' Jon said, less warmly.

'For you maybe,' he snorted back. 'The Freefolk's wars are done. You swore we'd only have to fight for our place in your precious North and we have done that. Ask the boneyard outside. They were your enemy and we killed them for you. Now we rest in our hard earned castle. I've always wanted a castle.' Tormand swayed where he stood, but his words rang from the heart, not his drink. Tormand remained ever stubborn to participate in Stannis Baratheon's wars.

'The wars will come to you. The Karstarks are loyal to the Boltons, and the Boltons will try to win the Karhold back,' Jon warned.

The Wildlings had played their part in Jon's 'southern war', defeating the last of the troops garrisoned at the Karhold. But that was as far as their involvement was supposed go, as was promised by Jon. Stannis was persistent in recruiting them to his cause, but all hopes of the Stag King earning their loyalty burnt away with Mance Raider. Though, with Jon landing the first blow, without even lifting a northern finger, the Boltons would like look to retaliate, and the Freefolk may have no choice but to fight, if the war came knocking on their new doorstep.

'The Karstarks are dead. Didn't you see them on your way in? Let them try,' Tormand taunted. 'The interesting thing about you southerners is you build big stone walls to hide from men like us. Had these Karstarks stayed behind them, their hearts would still beat in their chests.' A cocky smile crept into the corner of his mouth. 'I will gladly stay behind these walls if that Bolton cunt looks to oppose us. As for the Karstarks, fuck them they're dead.'

'They're not all dead, Tormand. And they will fight for their keep,' Jon tried to assure.

'Then you best root them out of Winterfell before they get a chance to strike,' Tormand went to fill his horn with more wine from a keg. 'The longer they sit there, the more our advantage dwindles. We have them outnumbered. We have them surrounded. Why do you march with haste and caution? Be a man and fuck them right in their faces, before they can do it to you.'

It wasn't Jon's doing. It was Stannis who consistently opted to let the Boltons stew with their schemes behind the walls of Winterfell, whilst they marched slowly down the Kingsroad, scraping for the last of the northern allies they could muster. Stannis wanted to be ready. He wanted the victory to be indisputable. Jon wanted Roose Bolton occupying a spike with his head as soon as the opportunity arose, but his King wanted to bask in his strength. Stannis had never been stronger in his conquests, and he was loving every second of it. _I fear he grows too drunk on his power. He has a taste for a Kings appetite now. A dangerous appetite._

Tormand guessed his thoughts. 'Your kneeler King holds you back, does he not?'

'Yes,' Jon admitted. 'The man's gone mad with his plans and his schemes. When the long night comes, he wants to let the walkers south to slaughter the Lannisters, whilst we hide in the stubborn mountain ranges of the Vale.'

It yeilded only a laugh from the Wildling. 'Little girl. Men who believe in strange fire gods are no men to follow in battle, Lord Snow. And who knows what that red woman whispers in his ear after she's spread her legs for him. For all we know, she is looking to burn your country down, and Stannis's cock is too hard to stop her.'

Stannis had plans to cosy up in the Eerie, if they complied, during the long night, giving the Others only the Lannisters to slaughter in the south; as well as half the countries populous. To him, that would only cut their chances to nothing in an eventual, inevitable fight. If the Walkers were allowed to massacre the whole of Westeros, their army of the dead would be too overwhelming for them to even dent, let alone destroy. They simply had to turn and fight the Others when the time came. Winter was nigh, and Westeros was still oblivious to the looming threat. _Or in mere denial._

'Stannis is honourable. He will do the right thing when we need him to,' Jon said, defensive of his King. Jon wasn't sure if he was right to, but he'd pledged his forsaken honour to him. It was too late to turn back now. 'He fought at our backs at Hardhome. He is the only one who knows what we're up against.'

Tormand raised a bushy ginger brow. 'And if he doesn't do the right thing?'

Jon wasn't sure what his options were if Stannis abandoned the _real war_. 'I don't know,' he yeilded.

'With the North behind you, Stannis does not cast a shadow that can match yours,' Tormand said, suddenly devious.

Jon gave him a queer look. 'The armies of The North are short at least four thousand of Stannis's force.'

'Ay, true. But you forget the two thousand Freefolk.' Tormand's eyes gleamed with purpose. 'And what, fifty men of the Nights Watch. Stannis's men are paid, in golden coins. They have no stake in this war. When the shit is thickest, they'll be the first to run. Your men are behind you, truly, as we were Mance. They'll follow you into the long night, as a Stark and as their leader. That's if Stannis doesn't force you south to fight for the fucking Iron Throne.'

'No, Stannis swore the North would only fight in the long night. We have no business in the games they play in the south,' Jon was louder than he intended, arousing Wildling eyes around the room.

'As you swore us. And look at us now. Sat in a fancy castle, waiting for your enemy to threat a war with my people,' Tormand argued back. He wasn't sure when this had become a conflict, but it soon grew heated.

'Stannis made me Warden of The North. He will give me back my home. I cannot turn my back on him. He is the one to lead us in the long night,' Jon said.

'No man, woman or child of the north, _the real north_ , will set foot on a battlefield at the heels of a fire God mad, stake burning southern King,' the Wildling chieftain said, his teeth clenched beneath his shaggy copper beard.

'Then who will you follow, Tormand,' Jon shouted. 'You refuse to lead the Freefolk yourself, you refuse to abide by the laws of Stannis. If you refuse every option, you will condemn your people to the worst of deaths. When the long night comes, do you think this castle will save you? What will you do when the fight comes to you? Refuse to lead your people then, and you will suffer the consequences,' Jon yelled back. He had no patience for Tormand's stubbornness.

'We will be there when the others come lurking, King Crow. I will avenge those we lost at Hardhome, whether it kills me or not. But never will the Freefolk kneel to one of your southern Kings,' Tormand said. 'But we would follow you into the long night, Jon Stark.'

Jon measured his face. The man was all serious. But it was no surprise to him that the Wildlings had accepted him as a capable leader. He lived as one once. As a turn cloak crow, yes, but he established peace between the two factions, halting a rivalry that had stemmed back countless centuries, which was enough for him to be trusted on both sides. But Tormand had meant much more than his words could define.

'When the long night comes, Jon Stark, you are the man to lead us all. You care not for crowns, for castles, for Iron Thrones. You fight because you know it is the only way. Stannis is no hero. He would sooner hide from the walkers than fight them like a real King would. Like Mance would,' Tormand preached. 'With the North and the Freefolk, you can see us to victory…or a bloody hard fought death at least. And _if_ we die, then at least your remains will do the fighting for us.

Jon did feel the weight of the whole war rested on his shoulders, and only he felt the urgency to stop the White Walkers before it was too late. His ancestors had warned them for years, _Winter is Coming._ His father, Eddard of the House Stark, Warden of the North and Hand of the King had said it near every day. _Winter was coming_. And Westeros didn't care. Only Stannis had come. And for that, Jon gave him his loyalty.

'It could never happen,' Jon argued. 'It just couldn't. I can't betray him.'

'So you will go south with him,' Tormand suggested.

He wouldn't turn his back on Stannis, but he wouldn't be beside him when he met the Lannisters in battle for Kings Landing. It was tempting, a chance to avenge his father, his brother, even Lady Catelyn, the woman who couldn't bare looking at him. Nothing would give him greater pleasure, to cast down those who had destroyed his house, baring the name _Stark._ But winter was coming, and so he would do what he must.

'If Stannis does not hold his word, I will have no choice but to turn my cloak on him, but until then, I follow him. As do my my men.' Jon couldn't deny Stannis played a large part of the Stark's banners rallying to Jon. Absent Stannis, he couldn't doubt the lords of the North would have closed their gates on him. Only in fear of Stannis and his force did the Lords who refused the rule of Roose Bolton rally to Jon. Together with Stannis, they were the largest force in the north bar the Night King's own army. The Boltons couldn't contest, and it bred confidence in Jon from his father's old bannermen. They wore the smile and named him a true Stark to his face, but he wondered what they truly thought of him. _A bastard, a deserter,_ he spat.

'You should find a new ally. Stannis only means to use you to secure the North. What will happen when you are no longer useful to him?' Tormand said, leaving. Jon was alone in the main hall with Tormand's Wildlings. They paid him no mind and continued their drinking. The stench of death lingered about the place, creeping beneath the scent of smoke and bacon and beer. He decided then he needed to rest, and made his way to find a fitting solar.

Podrick caught him on his way. He bumbled at his heels and stuttered his words. 'M-my Lord, your horse has been tended to,' Pod muttered.

'Thank you, Podrick. That will be all. Rest, find a fire,' he offered softly. But he continued to follow.

'A-actually, my Lord, I was hoping for a word,' Pod said. Jon stopped and urged him on.

Jon pressed on. Sleep was only a whisker away, but he'd asked much of the squire. He heard him out. 'Go on then. But make it quick,' he said.

Pod kept pace, bumbling all the while. 'I-I was wondering what exactly I'm to ask of Lord Tyrion when I reach Mereen? It's been a long while since I have seen him. Perhaps it is best for you to send one of your retainers, a noble perhaps.'

Jon smiled. 'A nobles word is no greater than a commoners. Besides, you know him. He trusts you.' He was keen to express his lack of involvement in the wars of Westeros, and he planned to keep it as such. 'I will write a letter, as formality. But we need allies, Pod. This fight isn't just the North's. Westeros is yet to bring itself into the fold. He's seen Castle Black, he knows how bad it is. Our struggle is worse than ever.'

' _Our?'_ Pod stung him a little.

He felt ashamed all of a sudden. _Even the squire doubts my loyalty._ 'I said the words…I am still fighting for the Nights Watch. Until my death. I'll write the letter. Go find yourself a fire, perhaps something to drink.'

Pod nodded and left with, 'for the sake of the realm, I hope that does not happen soon, my Lord.' Jon smiled at him, then Pod bumbled off into the night.

He made haste to find a chamber. After crossing an empty courtyard, climbing up a stout stairwell and reaching the peak of Karhold's main tower, Jon found a room befitting the Lord of Karstark. The room was dim, so he lit the hearth. When the fires roared, he sat beside it, engulfing himself in a blanket of warmth.

Jon unloaded his inventory, stripping out of his black leathers, a reminder of his commitments to the Nights Watch. He had promised to return with an army of Northmen, ready to face the long night side by side with his black brothers. Yet, Stannis's intentions seemed like to lead him south, dooming the remnants of Nights Watch to a butchering. _Stannis is not reliable anymore. He can help me take Winterfell back, yes, but then what? I cannot fight his wars for him. The North would never consent to another march down south, not after the Red Wedding._ Jon placed Longclaw on the table, sheathed. He rinsed his face in a basin of warm water and laid down to rest his aching bones. After long, he found himself dozing off into a foggy dream.

He was hunting.

But he wasn't a wolf, like before. He was a crow. Shivering winds ruffled through his feathers, his wings broad and black, barely visible in the night sky. The moonlight shone within the imperfections of his gleaming feathers, like a veil of stars within his wings. There were several of them, the cawing crows, eyeing up their feast below. It was a banquet of bodies, fallen in battle. A gruesome and gory sight, where men had their skin stripped from their chests, flayed and butchered.

Others had been torched at the stake, their charred bodies roasting, whilst herds of red priests prayed at their demise. There was a trail, Jon could see, from up high up in the clouds. The Kingsroad lay waste to scorched, mutilated dead men, in the wakes of his war. The crows had flocked for miles, from Winterfell to The Wall, feasting on the river of corpses. _Another dream,_ Jon thought.

He flew north, towards The Wall, cawing out to his flock to fly north. He saw it all; Roose Bolton in Winterfell, forking up schemes with his bastard. _Bastard, bastard_ Mormont's Raven cawed. _But you are not a crow,_ Jon argued. _Are you a crow?_ Edd Toilette cawed. _You're a deserter, Lord Snow. And a murderer,_ Thorne squawked. _Just a traitors bastard._ Jon flew away from them.

Jon looked down, he saw Last Hearth. He saw Sansa, sewing a cloak like fathers. And Stannis, fixated on flames within his tower, mesmerised by the dark whispers hissing in one ear. The red woman was clung to him, whispering more fables in the other. Lords Umber, Manderly and Glover bickered over who was to lead the vanguard, whilst drinking in the main hall. He saw Sam was with his Gillyflower, and Kraster's son, entranced in his brazen love, playing at a father. He flew on. But Edd followed. Castle Black was in the distance, an ants nest at the base of the wall.

 _You left us Jon. We needed you._ Edd pestered him, swooping by with his pitch black wings.

 _I was always coming back. I am coming back,_ Jon promised.

 _Its too late Jon,_ cawed Grenn, another fallen crow, flying beside them.

 _You cannot save us, Jon. Our watch has ended,_ Pyp added, cawing with the other crows he'd lost.

 _No, I have the North behind me now. They will aid us in the long night,_ Jon reassured, but his crow comrades didn't care.

 _It matters not, Jon Snow. The Watch plays no part in the wars of Kings. Yet, you have brought the war to us,_ squawked Maester Aemon. It was strange, Jon hearing the voices of his fallen brothers from the crows he flew with. Though, to his knowledge, Dolorous Edd was still Lord Commander. The rest however had all perished into memories. It was a sign he figured. A message, hidden beneath a shroud of riddles.

Castle Black was so close now, just beyond Moles Town. Or what was left of it. The town was no more than a scorch in the snow now. Jon wondered what was cause. He saw no dead, but it was apparent they had been attacked. His flock of crows had flown off North, under the immense shadow of the Wall. He flew on.

The Wall was a monster—even flying this high up, he still glided below its summit. He swooped down, smelling the smoke and snow emanating from his old home. He eyed a string of torches, illuminating the base of the Wall, a signal post of the keep, but the rest was shadow, dark as his wings. As Jon flew down though, he was met with the gruesome sight of his own corpse, led dead in the snow next to the armoury. He'd seen this before, back when he was Lord Commander.

Jon landed, perching himself atop a training dummy in the sparring yard. The crows came down to claim their feast. He watched as they pecked out the eyes of his murdered self. He wanted to caw them off but he knew it was nothing more than a dream.

 _It's not a dream Jon,_ another voice cawed. It was a Raven amongst crows, three times larger than them all with a black gleaming third eye on its head. It perched itself next to him. _This is as real as you or I. Your precious crows feed on the remains of your departure. They're starving leadership, and pluck at the remnants of your rule._

Jon wanted weep, and rage, and go back to his life before Stannis. Back to when he was Lord Commander, before he deserted his brothers and ushered in their doom with his absence. He wished he could have stopped himself slaying Ser Alliser, perhaps he was the man to lead them when the night was darkest. He wondered what consequences awaited the Nights Watch in times of such turmoil.

The Raven read his thoughts. _It's not your fault, Jon. You always intended to return. We both know that much._ It wasn't wrong. Despite being named Warden of the North and Lord Stark of Winterfell, in the back of his mind he'd always planned on rejoining the Nights Watch when the wars were over, if he still lived. Jon held his honour in high regard, as his father had, and he would not break his vowels. Jon merely wanted to restore his family legacy to its rightful place, for his house, for his family. All that had been taken from the Stark's, Jon sought to get back. Winterfell would be his first act but revenge was his motive now. And if he had the full force of the North rallying behind him on his return to Castle Black, he could sleep softly knowing it was all worth it when the Long Night came.

 _Or perhaps you drag the North into peril as well,_ said the Raven. _Will they follow a man who deserts his brothers when they need him most? Or will they stay hidden in their castles, seemingly safe, and wait out the winter._

 _No,_ Jon argued. _I am no deserter._ He didn't deem Stannis's pardon a good enough excuse to exempt him from his crimes. The black rose above the Kings laws, and it was the most significant of vowels, an oath for your life itself. He had said the words, and he would have to uphold them. _And I will, when the time comes,_ he reassured himself. _My watch shan't end until my death._

 _And I beside you, brother,_ the Raven said.

Jon looked at the Raven, all three eyes sparkled in the moonlight, black as jet. _Bran,_ Jon realised.

 _We have powerful blood, Jon. The blood of the first men,_ Bran cawed, his sharp black beak twinkling against the torches.

Jon had no questions, no words, nothing. It was all a sign, perhaps from the gods, the old or new. He had to be dreaming. _If his is real, how am I here? How are you here?_

 _We're Wargs Jon. And not of the same like as the Wildlings are. Our dreams take us places that are both true, and false, both full of answers and empty. They merely show us our path, or reflect on the trail we left in our wake,_ the Raven prattled.

Jon looked to the mutilated corpses, wondering whether this was a prompt from the gods for him to pave his way back to his post on the Wall, or if this was the mark he left on Castle Black. _And what of this?_ Jon asked. _Is this real? Are my brothers truly defeated?_

 _Only time will tell. But it is clear danger looms over Castle Black in your absence. Look over there,_ Bran cawed, gesturing to the corner of the courtyard, by the armoury. _What do you see?_ Jon flapped his wings and ascended over to the corner, landing on a weapon rack. He saw the body, pierced and leaking blood from multiple stab wounds. His expression was nonexistent and his wide eyed stare saw nothing. A slab of wood was nailed up above him, the word 'traitor' carved into it.

Jon recognised him, remembering the night he saw through Ghost's eyes. He'd seen this vision before. _It's me. Betrayed by my brothers._

 _Not in is life. But yes, Jon._ Bran the Raven perched up next to him. _The Nights Watch had mutiny in their hearts when the Wildlings were allowed to pass through the gate. If you had stayed, perhaps that was how it would have ended for you._

 _So I was supposed to leave? To live?_ Jon had heard as much from the red woman. She warned him Ser Alister would bare blood if he remained Lord Commander. But he was dead now.

 _Your watch does not end until your death, Jon. Remember that when the Kings and Queens whom war for the Iron Throne ask you south._ Bran seemed to know a lot of what was happening in recent times. And it was strange given he was last spotted by Sam heading north of the Wall. How could a crippled boy in the real north know the things he did? Then it occurred to him to ask, finally.

 _And what of you, little brother? I thought you dead going north. Why is it I see you only in my dreams?_ Jon had a barrage of questions, yet he could find no voice for them. Where was Bran? If he knew, perhaps it would give Brienne of Tarth a better quest of finding him. And what had he been thinking to even contest the idea of going beyond the Wall? It was a harsh country, and no place a crippled boy could ever survive. Or so he thought.

 _The heart trees, Jon. Their roots hold darker secrets than you could ever know. It's scary. But they hold power to you. You must find one. Touch the tree and they will tell you a thousand tales, if you bare the ears to listen. They will show you the truth of it all. Find one, Jon, and we shall speak again,_ Bran urged before taking off, and flying away.

 _Bran,_ Jon cawed. But he did not acknowledge. He was gone. _I don't know what to do._ Even with his titles, his honours, his name, Jon felt utterly powerless once more. Unsure what he was to do next, he flapped his wings and surveyed Castle Black, hoping for a clue to emerge. The black bone yard sat still and quiet, as snow trickled onto the corpses, smothering the black of their cloaks white as the Kingsguards own. They were almost buried in it now, the snows of winter growing ever thicker as each day passed. But winter was just beginning. He'd forgotten how cold it was up there. The colds of the crypts at Winterfell was a breeze in comparison the harsh gales that had tormented him north of the Wall.

From below, a man screamed, shrill and agonising. Jon swooped down, to see a black brother strung to a cross, shaped in the likeness of Roose Boltons banners. The man of the Nights Watch had been crucified, naked and left to freeze in the cold. The man was suffering beyond anything Jon had ever known. The sheer cold was enough to bring him an abundance hurts, but the man had been picked clean to the bone in some places, and ruby red lashes were dashed across his chest. But that wasn't enough to kill the man. No, he had been left to a slow and painful death. _A flayed man, at Castle Black. Damn you, Bran. What am I supposed to make of this?_

The only thing Jon could fathom from this surreal dream was a warning. His brothers for sure. But what business would Roose Bolton have with the Nights Watch? They were no elite force, nor donned any bold armies. They were but forty men, and barely a threat to a grumpkin. And the Boltons would never be able to smuggle a force passed Stannis and armies. _If this is truly a vision, then I must warn them._

But Edd appeared from behind, still a crow. _I told you, Jon. It's too late._

 _But how? Tell me what I have to do,_ Jon pleaded.

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow,_ uttered another tormenting crow. When he wheeled to meet the speaker, he woke to Podrick Payne.

'Lord Stark….L-Lord Stark?' Jon sat up and stared at his hands. They weren't wings, and he was back. But Bran had come to him, in his dreams.

'What is it Podrick?' His sleep left him wary. His mood felt snappy, and Podrick's bumbling was something he had no patience for.

'C-castle Black, my Lord. A raven came,' Podrick muttered, his breath heavy in the cold night air. 'The Nights Watch has been attacked.'


End file.
